Time, And the Killing Thereof
by Nightwind
Summary: Road trips can be exciting. More often, they're boring. But at least they have each other to talk to.
1. Questions, Questions

_Howdy! For those of you who have me on Author Alert…Sorry, this isn't a Transformers story. Yes, I know I have stories in need of continuation. Brain just isn't being cooperative. *sigh*_

_Instead, a few weeks back, Brain decided to watch _Knight Rider_. (The original series, that is, since I have the whole thing on DVD.) I'm about halfway through the series now, and Brain has been totally eaten by the world's most adorable black Trans Am while simultaneously deciding to drown itself in very cheesy 80s music and nothin' but very cheesy 80s music. Brain is in terrible danger, I fear… _

_So, the upshot is that I've got a big KR story in the works. Eighty-eight small-font pages and counting and not even close to done. Oy. Don't know if it's something I want to share, though. But, I also have this little idea, and I'm OK with sharing the results of it. _

_See, the way I figure it, there's lots of driving on that show that we, for dramatic purposes, don't see because it would A) be boring from a dramatic point of view and would B) take up time better left to, you know, a plot. But it got me thinking about what Michael and Kitt might talk about on the road, out of sheer boredom, if nothing else. (I live in the US Southwest, where much of the show is set. Let me tell you, there's lots of boring driving_ _through long stretches of absolute nothingness to be done around these-here parts.) I thought it might be fun to come up with and write down some short (and for me, writing something short is nothing less than miraculous) snatches of time-killing_, _context-less conversations between the two characters. _

_This is intended to be the first of at least half a dozen. "Intended," I say, because I really don't know. The only thing I know is that I'm fickle and flighty. And that giant robots could totally re-eat Brain at any moment. That said, if you like this concept and have an idea you'd like to see me take a shot at, feel free to prompt me. I can't even remotely promise that I'll write it, but if what you say makes Brain spew something, I just might write down whatever it spews (and give you credit for the prompt, of course). I do have a few ideas for topics of discussion – some off-the-wall goofy, some Deadly Serious™, most somewhere in between – that are pecking at my neurons…but I can always use more. :)_

_Anyway, here you go._

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><p><strong>Questions, Questions<strong>  
>(Or: In Which Kitt Is Confused and Michael Is Smug)<p>

"Michael, may I ask you a question?" Kitt politely asked.

"If I say no," Michael responded good-naturedly, "does that mean you won't ask it?"

"No," Kitt answered, honest as always.

"Well, if you're ultimately going to ask the question whether or not I give you permission to ask it, then why on Earth do you _bother_ to ask if you can ask it?" Michael wanted to know. "I mean, where's the logic in that, huh?" he added.

Kitt paused, giving the question some serious consideration.

"I suppose I do it because doing so is considered polite," he explained a few moments later, with a frown in his voice. "It's often considered rude to ask a question without first asking if you can ask one, particularly a personal one," he elaborated. "Although that does seem rather silly, now that I think about it…"

"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" Michael solemnly agreed.

"Especially because by asking to ask a question…you're already asking a question, so…"

"Absolutely," Michael agreed again, this time with a sage nod as Kitt's voice trailed off thoughtfully. "Quite the paradox, isn't it?"

"Yes," Kitt answered, distractedly.

"And the whole asking to ask a question thing…it's inefficient, too, don't you think?"

"Yes, Michael, I daresay that it is," Kitt replied. "It wastes time."

"And time is money," Michael agreed. "Or at least it's…something."

"Yes, it is," Kitt murmured. He was quiet for a mile or two, and then he decisively announced, "The next time I have something to ask, I won't ask if I can ask. I'll just…ask."

"Good," Michael said with an equally decisive and approving nod. "Glad we cleared that up."

"I am, too," Kitt replied, happily.

Silence reigned for at least twenty miles then, or at least it would have reigned had Michael not started to hum a wandering, mindless tune.

"So…" he prompted Kitt once he'd finished the spontaneous and simultaneous composition and performance of his little ditty. "What?"

"What?" Kitt asked Michael in turn, genuinely puzzled.

"What were you going to ask me?" Michael asked back.

There was a prolonged pause on Kitt's end of the conversation, long enough that Michael actually started to feel concerned.

"Kitt?" he prompted, frowning.

"I…forgot," Kitt admitted, the tone of his voice extremely perplexed.

And Michael smiled a self-satisfied and slightly evil little smile born of pure triumph and said, quietly, "Heh. Good."


	2. Political Animal

_Well, here's another. Slightly longer than the last one. And thanks - I think - to The Vigilant Sleeper for unleashing a monster in my brain... ;)_ _And Tiamat: Come to the dark side. Watch _Knight Rider_. We have cheesy 80s music..._**  
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><p><strong>Political Animal<strong>  
>(Or: In Which Kitt Is Outraged and Michael Is Amused)<p>

"I swear," Michael fervently vowed as he repeatedly bounced the back of his head against the headrest in a mostly-futile effort to stay awake. Certainly not for the first time, he was glad that Kitt could drive the car; he was especially glad that he _was_ driving it, at the moment. "I swear, one day I _will_ get them to install that coffee maker I've been wanting for years."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Kitt muttered.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" Michael asked, squinting peevishly at the voice modulator.

"It means," Kitt patiently explained, "that I refuse to be a willing participant in your drug dependency."

"Drug dependency?" Michael echoed, bewildered. "You make it sound illegal or something," he added grumpily.

"Caffeine _is_ a drug," Kitt pointed out. "And, as far as human physiology is concerned, it's a highly addictive one. And _you_, Michael Knight, are extremely dependent upon it and, I might add, you've cultivated a very high level of tolerance for it, as well. Which of course only forces you to imbibe more of it in order to achieve the desired effect. A very vicious circle, if you ask me."

"Mmmm," Michael murmured, dozing off. "Except that, as I recall, I _didn't_ ask you," he added, all sleepily petulant, as his eyes drifted closed.

"I will _never_ understand the United States government," Kitt vehemently announced, out of the blue, a few miles later.

"The who-wha?" Michael responded, jerking and blinking awake.

"The government," Kitt repeated. "The law sanctions alcohol, nicotine, and caffeine, all highly addictive substances. Not only that, but in the cases of alcohol and nicotine, long-term use has been proven to have disastrous effects on the human body, not to mention the deaths caused by drunken driving. Yet, marijuana is outlawed, even thought its active chemical is not especially addictive, is far less impairing than is alcohol, and has not been shown to have any long-term life-threatening effects," Kitt finished in a near-growl.

"Jesus, Kitt," Michael answered, grinning delightedly. "What are you, a hippie?"

"No, I was born too late," Kitt answered. "However, had I been born in 1952 instead of 1982, then…"

Michael snorted and promised, "I'll buy you some love beads with a big ol' peace sign the next chance I get, pal."

"See that you do," Kitt replied seriously. "I'm sure that we can find something in here from which to hang them." Michael broke out in deeply surprised laughter as Kitt continued, "In any case, I'm simply pointing out the irrationality of the law. On this particular matter…I definitely agree with the hippies."

"Well, honestly, so do I," Michael answered. "But I've got one word for you, pal: Lobbying."

"Mmmm," Kitt grumbled disapprovingly. "That and big business outright _buying_ politicians with massive campaign contributions. And that's another thing!" Kitt ranted. "Business shouldn't have influence over the government and vice versa. And businesses simply shouldn't be allowed to fund politicians. Neither should religious leaders have any influence whatsoever. And don't even get me _started_ on the concept of taxes…"

"Why, Kitt!" Michael answered, deeply amused. "How very…Democratic of you. Or is that Republican? I've never been much into politics…" he finished in a mutter.

"Mostly Libertarian, actually," Kitt primly informed him. "The Republicans are big-business worshipping warmongers, and the Democrats spend far too much money far too easily. They _love_ taxes."

Michael laughed out loud.

"Next thing we know," he said when he'd recovered, "you'll be running for president."

"Unfortunately," Kitt answered very seriously, "I'm too young. Give me about thirty years, then we'll see."

"Well, I'll be a senior citizen then, but you'll have my vote," Michael assured him with a grin. "Or maybe," he proposed, as another thought struck him, "you and me should just chuck it all right now and start our own country. Whaddaya think? Maybe a little island in the South Pacific somewhere. Sun. Warm water. Beaches…" he rhapsodically described.

"Girls in bikinis," Kitt supplied resignedly, well knowing that that was next on the list. In fact, he was surprised that it hadn't migrated to the top of the list yet.

"Or in nothing at all," Michael answered, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"You are _awful_," Kitt accused exasperatedly.

"It's good to be the king," Michael informed him with a careless shrug.

"It would _not_," Kitt insisted, "be a monarchy. And even if it was, _you_ would certainly _not_ be the king." Michael smirked as Kitt finished, "But it _would_ be a country where caffeine would be illegal but not marijuana."

"I could live with that," Michael decided, after giving the concept some serious consideration. "Once I got through the withdrawal, I guess," he added with a shrug. Then he chuckled, patted the dash fondly, and said, "And I'd smoke a joint with you _anytime_, pal."

"I'll hold you to that," Kitt answered archly.


	3. Car Wars

_This one has far more narrative than it should have, given the concept, and is therefore longer than it should be, too…but what the hell? Thanks to The Vigilant Sleeper for the idea what sparked this. I'm not sure that this is at all what you had in mind…but it was what spewed out of Brain in response to your suggestion. :) Word association is weird that way, I guess. _

_And this was kind of fun for me, personally, because I rather often drive the stretch of highway where I chose to set this…_

_A few review replies are below, 'cuz it's what I do…_

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><p><strong>Car Wars<strong>  
>(Or: In Which Kitt Is Greatly Offended On Many Levels and Michael Is, Again, Amused)<p>

The sixty-mile stretch of Interstate 25 that linked Albuquerque and Santa Fe was a happening place at about 7AM, as people commuted to one or the other of the two cities. Michael and Kitt were heading northeast, toward Santa Fe. They were about halfway between the two cities, and there were patches of heavy traffic here and there. Everyone was moving at a nice clip, though, and there was a comfortable amount of breathing room between each vehicle.

As far as Michael was concerned, just this once, the congestion here and there seemed like a good thing. It was sometimes nice to be reminded that he and Kitt weren't the only people left on Earth; with the obscure and completely deserted routes that they often used on longer road trips, it was easy to forget that. Plus, it was nice not to have to listen to Kitt complain about the dismal condition of the county roads that they often used, many of which consisted of nothing but hard-packed dirt…and sometimes not-so-hard-packed dirt. Occasionally, if there'd been a storm, they were nothing more than mudpits, which Kitt _truly_ despised. Michael often inwardly echoed Kitt's complaints…although he'd admit that to Kitt only if someone were to rip out his eyeteeth.

But here, on the highway, the choking, gritty desert dust that Kitt also hated with a deep, abiding, and loudly voiced passion was minimal-to-nonexistent. More importantly, as far as Michael was concerned, there were no miles-long stretches of jarring washboard erosion that made his bones ache after a while. Here, there was just an endless, mostly-straight ribbon of blissfully smooth, six-laned divided-highway concrete snaking across the middle of nowhere in the high desert. And there was a 75mph speed limit…which could easily be pushed to 85 without attracting undue attention from the good folks who comprised the New Mexico State Police.

And on top of everything else, it was a clear, brilliantly sunny day, the kind of clear and brilliantly sunny that was possible only at high altitude in the desert. It was an unseasonably warm late February day, and it was pleasantly lacking the truly brutal winds that the area often endured. Michael had the windows rolled down, and even though the 7AM hour wasn't one that he favored, tending to be more of a night owl, he was nevertheless thoroughly enjoying the drive. It was, he thought, one of those days that made one simply happy to be alive.

He was just thinking about annoying Kitt with some form of obscenely loud music when a quiet "Hmph" sounded in the Trans Am's cabin. It was a precisely calculated quiet, however, not loud enough to be exactly obvious, but exactly loud enough that Michael was able to hear it over the whooshing of air streaming in through the open windows. And Michael knew what it meant: His partner had a bug up his exhaust about something, but he didn't want to be overt about it.

Yet.

"What?" Michael asked resignedly, preemptively caving to the inevitable.

"What?" Kitt immediately asked back, all exaggerated innocence.

"You hmphed," Michael informed him.

"Did I?" Kitt responded in the same innocent tone.

"Yes, you did," Michael answered with a sigh. When Kitt remained silent, he prompted, "So…what?"

"There's a Corvette at approximately five-o-clock," Kitt mildly reported.

Frowning, since that wasn't exactly what he had expected Kitt to say, Michael twisted his upper body around in order to have a quick glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was a Corvette hanging there. It was a convertible, but it had its top up; it wasn't quite warm enough for top-down driving yet. The car looked brand-new, in the new body style, and other than the black ragtop, it was bright cherry-red. It was _not_ driven by an attractive blonde, unfortunately, but rather by a balding middle-aged man who, if he wasn't a lawyer, certainly looked like one. Michael turned back, frowning at the voice modulator.

"So… Was that a 'Yessir, I'll have me a piece of that' hmph?" he asked of Kitt. "Or was it more of a 'That isn't fit to lick my hubcaps' hmph?"

"Neither, actually," Kitt answered levelly. "Although the latter of course applies," he added after a beat, almost on cue.

"Of course it does," Michael agreed with oft-practiced serenity.

"Really," Kitt was blithely continuing, "it was more of a 'What were they _thinking_?' hmph."

"What was who thinking?" Michael asked, frowning.

"Whoever designed that…_thing_," Kitt hissed. "That _monstrosity_."

Michael chuckled.

"Seriously, Michael!" Kitt insisted. "The third-generation Corvette is a classic. _Was_ a classic. Nicely low-slung. Aerodynamic and compact, but with dangerous curves in all the right places," he reverently described.

"And now you know why I like girls in bikinis," Michael lightly interjected.

In response, Kitt made Exasperated Noise #4; he was developing quite a repertoire of them, Michael thought with amusement. #4 tended to indicate an imminent spate of the scoffing kind of exasperation.

"Really, Michael," Kitt, indeed, scoffed. "I know _exactly_ why you like girls in bikinis. But there's no comparison. Girls, even with the intervention of a horde of plastic surgeons, can't defy gravity for long, but with proper care a car…is eternal."

Michael grinned merrily as he answered, "Until you shove it in a compactor. Or drop it out of an airplane without a parachute. Or have it become intimate friends with a Peterbilt."

Michael knew that if he could have been, Kitt would have been wincing in response, and he smirked at the mental image that the thought evoked.

"You…are cruel," Kitt accused after a moment.

"I know, pal," Michael soothed consolingly, giving the dash a pat. "But you have to admit that you handed me that one on a silver platter."

"I suppose I did," Kitt conceded grudgingly. "But speaking of making friends with a Peterbilt, it looks like that's exactly what happened to the poor Corvette. They…They shortened its hood! Flattened all its curves!" he ranted. "The third-generation Corvette was a shark on wheels. _That_ is a flounder on wheels. They ruined the _Corvette_! A _classic_! Such a travesty," he finished, almost wistfully. "I mean, _look_ at that thing!"

Valiantly smothering a fit of snickering, Michael did as he was told, twisting around again in order to do so. He gave the Corvette as long a look as he could manage before turning back again.

"I dunno, Kitt," he said as he turned back, with an careless shrug and in an airy tone that was precisely calculated and modulated to irritate his partner. "It looks pretty darned good to me."

Kitt made Exasperated Noise #2, the one that indicated outraged and deeply offended exasperation, the one that meant that Michael was in for an earful of very creative invective if he didn't do something to head it off at the pass, pronto.

So, before Kitt could formulate a reply, Michael smirked and announced, "And you know, some people are saying that very same 'They ruined a classic!' thing…about the Trans Am."

"They are not!" Kitt immediately retorted, scandalized.

"They are, too!" Michael insisted. "Read _Car and Driver_. You'll see. And you know…now that you mention it…I'm looking out this windshield, and I'm seeing lots of flat."

"Well," Kitt haughtily replied, "a certain degree of flatness is required for aerodynamic efficiency. But there is a definite point of diminishing returns for street-legal vehicles. The new Corvette is well beyond that point, whereas _I_ am not," he finished huffily, his tone as prickly as a pissed-off porcupine.

Once again, Michael turned to look at the Corvette, and he said, in a conciliatory tone, "You know, I think you're right."

"Of course I am," Kitt sulkily sniffed.

"And you know something else?" Michael asked as he noticed the look that the driver of the Corvette was giving him now.

"What?" Kitt asked grumpily.

"I think this guy wants to race," Michael answered as he turned back to watch the road again. A slow smile was spreading across his face.

"Reeeeeally?" Kitt responded, instantly perking up by at least a few dozen notches. "That piece of _roadkill_ wants to race me? _Me_?"

"Mm-hmm," Michael murmured back simply.

"Bring it on," Kitt snarled aggressively.

Chuckling, Michael teased, "You know, you're cute when you're competitive."

"Just shut up and race, Michael," Kitt growled.

"Yessir," Michael murmured as he decelerated until the red Corvette and Kitt were hovering side-by-side. There was, at the moment, no one in front of either vehicle, and the stretch of road ahead was arrow-straight and mostly flat for as far as the eye could see.

Just perfect for a little slightly illegal and completely unfair drag racing.

Michael turned his head as he perfectly paced the Corvette and found that its driver was still scowling challengingly at him. In fact, now that he and Kitt were pacing him in an overtly taunting manner, his scowl had deepened. In response, Michael gave him a dazzling and saccharine-sweet smile…and then half-floored the accelerator.

"_Arrivederci_!" Kitt happily crowed just before they streaked off as if belched from a nuclear-powered cannon. They quickly left the Corvette in the dust, try as it might to keep up.

On the stretch of I-25 between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, doing 85mph didn't tend to attract attention. Doing 185mph, however, was quite another story. But then, it wasn't as if there was anyone on Earth who could touch them.

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><p><em><strong>Note:<strong>__ The fact that Kitt's opinions of the third-generation ('68–'82) Corvette and the fourth-generation ('84-'96) Corvette perfectly coincide with the author's opinions on the subject is by **no** means coincidental. And before you say it: No, there was no '83 Corvette, except for a few dozen prototypes of the new design._

_And, I promise, in the next one, Kitt won't rant…Well, OK, maybe he will. He can't help it; he's a **very** opinionated AI. ;) But I'll do my level best to gag him._

_Now, review replies:_

_**Jalaperilo**__: Kitt _totally_ has my vote. Way better than the jokers who usually end up nominated. :p And…Good God, woman! You're a Knight Rider fan, too? I knew I loved you for a reason. ;) Now send me some Parkin! Guy Fawkes Night is coming up fast, you know…_

_**Tiamat**__: Cookies? Of __**course**__ there's cookies, silly woman! Any kind of cookie you can imagine. Cake, too. Or pie, if you prefer. Of course, all of it pales in comparison to the pure, unadulterated squee-worthiness of the world's most adorable Trans Am. So…*frisbees a few KR DVDs your way* You _know_ you want to… ;)_

_**The Vigilant Sleeper:**__ Well, I don't know how such joint-smoking could be accomplished, either, but I _do_ know that if anyone can figure it out, it'd be Kitt. :) And thanks again for the idea. As you can maybe see, I had a ton of fun with it. :)  
><em>

_**CharmingCheyenne:**__ Oh, yes. There will be more, I'm afraid. It seems that Kitt's pretty firmly lodged in Brain, at the moment, grappling hook and all. And he is an infamous blabbermouth, you know, so… Geez, and I thought Starscream was bad… *storms off, grumbling*_


	4. Dreaming of You

_*cranks up the rating on this puppy a notch, since Kitt can be very…uh, frank.* Then again, I probably should have done that due to drug references anyway because, you know, OMG the CHILDREN! They might go out and – Horrors! – smoke a joint. ;) _

_*ahem*  
><em>

_ANYWAY…after the opening line of this suddenly squirted itself into my grey matter at about 1:00 this morning, just as I was drifting off to sleep, the rest of it just _had_ to be written. This, of course, resulted in a few hours of lost sleep that I'll be very dearly paying for later…_

_Anyway, I'm _very_ sorry. Interpret this however you like. Just don't hurt me. _

_This might be the last one for a bit. Got me a busy few days coming up. Then again, something might squirt into my brain at any time. The nice thing is that these are all context-less. No plot or anything else to worry about. Just let the voices go. Makes them easy to write. And fun. Too fun, perhaps...  
><em>

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><p><strong>Dreaming of You<strong>  
>(Or: In Which Kitt Is Disturbingly Inquisitive and Michael Is Just Plain Old Disturbed)<p>

Somewhere smack in the middle of Missouri, speeding west along Interstate 70, Michael announced, "I had a dream about you last night."

"About me?" Kitt asked in return, his tone somewhat surprised.

"No," Michael immediately, sarcastically shot back. "About that garbage truck we just passed. Who _else_ would I be talking to?"

"The voices in your head, perhaps," Kitt dismissively suggested.

Michael smiled and said, "Pal, if I ever start holding conversations with them, then I'll know it's time to pack it in."

"Mmmm," Kitt murmured. "You know," he added, "some might say that holding a conversation with your car is also a sign that you need to, as you say, pack it in."

Michael grinned as he answered, "Well, under normal circumstances, they'd be right. But you're not normal."

"Thank you, Michael," Kitt responded. "I think," he added after a beat, his voice a bit puzzled.

Michael chuckled and reached for his coffee, discovering as he wrapped his hand around the insulated cup that it had finally cooled enough to drink it without scalding something. He took a mouthful, swallowed it slowly, savoring its deep and unadulterated black strength, anticipating the impending caffeine rush.

And then mildly, almost off-handedly, as if he was asking about the weather, Kitt asked, "So was it an erotic dream?"

Michael very nearly drowned in his mouthful of coffee, as he fought hard not to spew it all over the dash because Kitt hated few things more than when he did something like that. He managed to swallow most of it, but some of it insisted on diving down his trachea instead. He coughed, he sputtered, his eyes teared like crazy, and when he could finally say something, long moments of choking half to death later, he could only wheeze breathlessly, "_Excuse_ me?"

"Are you quite all right, Michael?" Kitt asked solicitously instead of answering Michael's demand.

"Yes," Michael answered around a lingering cough, and then clarified, "No! I mean… _What_ did you just say?"

"I've been doing some research on the subject of dreams," Kitt explained, still in that same horribly mild, unaffected tone. "It really is a fascinating look into the human subconscious, you know. Freud in particular had much to say about dreams. Like most other things, he interpreted much of the phenomenon in sexual terms, believing in part that dreams addressed unfulfillable desires, given the taboos and the customary, almost ritualized, repression of that particular basic drive during the time period in which he lived. And did you know that the Aborigines believe that the universe was dreamt into existence?"

"…the Aborigines?" Michael echoed dazedly, shaking his head sharply and blinking rapidly, unable to keep up with the stunningly rapid Freudian-sexual-theories-to-Aborigines topic shift.

"The indigenous people of Australia," Kitt helpfully supplied. "They—"

"I _know_ who the Aborigines are," Michael interrupted before Kitt could enthusiastically launch into a comprehensive history of the Aborigines from the dawn of time up until yesterday afternoon. "I just…just… I'm sorry. My brain is…stuck."

"Why?" Kitt asked with an innocent and curious frown in his voice. He reviewed the conversation so far and then answered his own question. "Oh. Because I asked you if it was an erotic dream."

"Well…um… Yeah, that," Michael answered weakly.

"Was it?" Kitt cheerfully persisted.

"Kitt!" Michael protested.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Kitt soothingly asserted. "It's a very common theme in dreams, you know, along with dying, being able to fly, and showing up naked at one's school or workplace."

"Kitt, it wasn't—" Michael began to protest again.

"You and I have worked together for a number of years now," Kitt was continuing, heedless. "We are rather often forced to depend on each other for survival. In fact, we've developed a habit of spending practically _all_ of our time together, even when we're not working. We've talked about all sorts of things, experienced life and, very nearly, death together, more so than probably any two human beings ever have. There's mutual trust between us and, in a way, a certain level of…mental intimacy, for lack of a better term. It's not at all surprising, given that the subconscious mind tends to think in more primitive terms than does the conscious mind, that your own subconscious mind would process and then illustrate our relationship as a physically intimate one."

"Except that that's impossible," Michael pointed out.

"Not necessarily," Kitt sniffed. "_You_ simply lack imagination. Or at least your conscious mind does."

Michael gawked at the voice modulator.

"I… You…" he stammered, and then his voice stalled right along with his brain. Again. He shook his head again to clear it out, firmly deciding that he was just going to conveniently forget that that last exchange had ever happened. "Look, it _wasn't_ an erotic dream, all right?" he finally managed, somewhat desperately, to say.

"It wasn't?" Kitt asked, and his tone was distinctly – and disturbingly – crestfallen.

"_No_, it wasn't," Michael testily, vehemently confirmed. "And would you please stop sounding all…all _disappointed_ about it?"

Kitt hmphed.

"Well," he said, sounding disappointed anyway, "it would have been a _fascinating_ insight into your mind, if it had been."

"You apparently know _far_ too much about my mind already," Michael grumped, almost but not quite under his breath.

Both were quiet for a long while after that, each thinking his own thoughts. It was Kitt who eventually broke the silence, after about ten minutes and as many miles had passed.

"So?" he prompted, his tone intensely curious.

"So what?" Michael answered.

"If it wasn't an erotic dream," Kitt asked, "what _was_ it about?"

Michael frowned.

"I'm not talking to you about this anymore," he grumpily informed Kitt.

"Why not?" Kitt asked, a note of petulance seeping into his voice.

"Because whatever I say," Michael answered with equal petulance, "I just _know_ you're going to go off and twist and turn and _mutilate_ it into something all _Freudian_ and…and…_kinky_."

"I see," Kitt answered neutrally. He was quiet for a mile or so, and then he mildly asked, "_Was_ it kinky?"

"Kitt!" Michael protested. "Just…stop!"

"Oh, very well," Kitt responded with a synthesized but deeply put-out sigh.

All was quiet for a few miles, and Michael decided that he was finally out of the woods. That he could relax. He even started to do so, slouching comfortably into the driver's seat, his mind starting to wander aimlessly into far less treacherous territory.

And then, out of the blue and without warning, Kitt started to play Queen's "I'm In Love with My Car."

And Michael's outraged yell of "KIIIIIIIIIITT!" could probably be heard all the way over in Kansas.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Note:<strong>__ Yes, the song "I'm In Love with My Car" exists. If you're not familiar with it, YouTube it, my pretties. YouTube it._

_**Review replies!**_

_**Jalaperilo:**__ Ah, but Parkin's at its best when it's slightly stale, no? ;) And yes, darling, YouTube. YouTube is your friend. Hulu might be a better bet, though; looks like they have the 1__st__ season, at the moment. And yep, Knight Rider is _definitely_ where my own love of sentient machines was born. I was very well-prepared when I discovered Transformers in '85. *snicker*_

_**KamikazePigeon:**__ *waves frantically from up in Durango, CO* Yep, I'm often in ABQ/Santa Fe, since I has friends and pseudo-family down thar. And I just __**love**__ the stretch of 25 between Bernalillo and Santa Fe. Zoooooooooooooom! :D It's why I picked it for that l'il story._

_**The Vigilant Sleeper:**__ "I _beg_ your pardon? Moody?" Ah, shut up, Kitt. ;) Yes, we all know he's moody. And that he can turn on a dime in more ways than one. Sulky to deliriously happy in 2 seconds flat. And Inner Kitt is now purring at the concept of a '73 Corvette companion. Black, of course. *snicker*_

_**CharmingCheyenne:**__ Oh, hell. He's cute when he's just sitting there…but don't tell him I said that. ;)_


	5. Snowbound and Determined

_A couple of days ago, we had our first snow here in the mountains of southwest Colorado. It started during the day, but it didn't stick to anything but cars. Then it got cold enough overnight that it accumulated a wee bit before melting after daybreak the next day. So, it's gone now, at least at my 7,000 feet of elevation. But the mountains, they is purty and picturesque once again, after a few months of nekkidness. So, in honor of snow, particularly snow what makes the mountains purty but that I don't have to drive in, I wrote this. It's another that has far too much narrative for the concept and so is rather long, _definitely_ the longest yet. But…meh. It fits the theme well enough. _

_So…Welcome, Michael and Kitt, you wussy California beach boys, to __**my**__ home turf…which for much of the year __**totally**__ isn't fit for rear-wheel-drive vehicles. MWAHAHAHAHAH!_

_*ahem*_

* * *

><p><strong>Snowbound and Determined<strong>  
>(Or, In Which Kitt is Stuck and Michael Is…Well, He's Stuck, Too, Actually.)<p>

"Well," Kitt said mildly, almost cheerfully, once the last chunk of falling rock had bounced onto his hood, joining its many friends and cousins. "So much for the scenic route."

All that Kitt could see in front of him, after all, was rock. His front end was embedded in the sheer, near-vertical expanse of bare, occasionally ice-encrusted reddish rock that he'd slammed into. Although he couldn't see it, he knew that the rockface reared above him for at least another five hundred more or less sheer feet.

Michael, meanwhile, took a few deep breaths, trying mostly in vain to convince his heart rate to return to normal, before he warily lifted his forehead from the steering column.

"Well," he said, also mildly, as he sat up straight and poked experimentally at the incipient lumpy bruise in the middle of his forehead, wincing heavily as a result. "On the plus side, we didn't go hang-gliding off the cliff after all."

"Indeed," Kitt agreed. "I _might_ have survived a 400-foot sheer drop into a shallow river, but _you_ would have ended up as so much crunchy strawberry jam on my dashboard."

Michael swallowed distastefully.

"Thanks for the visual, pal," he said.

"Oh, anytime," Kitt replied with disturbing cheer.

Michael aimed a narrow-eyed scowl at the voice modulator and warily asked, "Are you all right?"

His partner was being strangely calm and weirdly not mad, after all. Not that he was complaining, really, but it did make Michael wonder if Kitt was suffering from the technological equivalent of some bizarre, behavior-altering head injury or something.

"Peachy," Kitt was reporting, meanwhile, still with a disturbing level of cheer and not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "I _love_ ramming scanner-first into a wall of very dense rock at 50 miles per hour."

Kitt's answer made Michael scowl more deeply.

"No, really," he said, becoming concerned. "Are you all right? I mean, seriously."

"Yes," Kitt answered, this time with a slightly testy what-is-_wrong_-with-you aspect to the tone of his voice that made Michael feel marginally better because it was much more normal. "Why?" Kitt asked.

"Because…" Michael answered slowly. "Well, because usually you'd be reaming me a new one for this. And you're…not. Honestly, it's weirding me out a little. More than a little."

"Why bother with the reaming?" Kitt rhetorically asked. "You _never_ listen to me, anyway. So I thought I'd try a different tactic," he finished sourly.

Michael smiled then, feeling suddenly, infinitely better. He slumped back in his seat and then reached out to give the dash a fond pat.

"Ahhhhhh, now _there's_ my pal," he said, heaving a relieved sigh. "And I do so listen to you."

Kitt hmphed.

"As for my condition…" he reported. "I could offer up a litany of complaints, but overall…Well, let's just say that I'm lucky I'm me."

"Mmm," Michael murmured. "And I'm lucky you're you, too." He paused for a moment, and then sincerely added, "I'm sorry, Kitt. I did _try_ to slow down, but…"

"I know," Kitt consolingly answered. "But we can't always defy physics, Michael. Not to mention gravity. I don't think I could have done any better." He paused, noted the developing swelling and discoloration of Michael's forehead, and added, "Are _you_ all right, Michael?"

"Peachy," Michael chirped. "I love ramming my face into your dashboard at 50 miles per hour." Kitt hmphed again as Michael sighed and added, "Gonna be one hell of a bruise…but I think I'm all right."

Kitt surreptitiously ran a scan of Michael's vital signs and found, to his unspoken relief, that he agreed with Michael's assessment.

And then he tried to move. It turned out to be a fruitless endeavor. His rear wheels were sitting smack in the middle of the thin but treacherously slick sheet of ice that, along with an equally-thin and treacherous veneer of snow, was coating the entirety of the extremely narrow and steeply upward-sloping road. It was exactly what they'd slipped on in the first place. Kitt knew that he could rev the engine as high as it would go, and as a reward for his valiant efforts, he'd go exactly nowhere. Even if he applied the turbo in reverse, he'd only send himself hurtling over that 400-foot sheer drop-off behind him, just a narrow lane-and-a-half away. It was all more than slightly depressing. There was nothing he liked less than being helpless.

"Well," Michael was saying with a resigned sigh, meanwhile, as he pushed open the driver's side door, "I'm gonna go see what's what."

"Michael, you do realize that I'm taking up more than half of this lane of the road," Kitt warned. "And at the rate the snow is coming down, there isn't much in the way of visibility. Do be careful."

"I'm so very touched by your concern, pal," Michael drawled, patting the roof as he stood up, mindful of the fact that there was nothing but snow-glazed ice under his feet and that his boots offered very little in the way of traction. "But really, who else would be crazy enough to be up here in this?" he asked as he gently shut the door, knowing that Kitt wouldn't at all appreciate snow accumulating on his upholstery.

"Someone as crazy as you, perhaps," Kitt pointed out. "Where there's one nut, there very well might be more."

Michael smirked as he took in their surroundings. Highway 550. Of course, when it came to this section of it, "highway" was something of a misnomer. It was often just barely gouged into otherwise sheer mountainsides that were, essentially, gigantic and very dense hunks of iron. In numerous places, the roadbed was barely wide enough for two vehicles; it could be truly terrifying when a semi was coming the other way, especially because the road usually lacked guardrails. But on the other hand, it was part of a scenic drive that offered some of the most beautiful panoramic vistas in the country as it snaked and switchbacked its way through some of the highest mountains in the Lower 48, clustered in the southwestern corner of Colorado. It treaded, very precariously at times, along a treacherous string of mountain passes, none of them more treacherous than Red Mountain Pass.

Which, of course, was exactly where he and Kitt were sitting. Or rather, they were sitting somewhat below it. They'd actually made it through the most treacherous part, the ridiculously steep ascent from the town of Ouray and then the crest of the pass itself at about 11,000 feet. They'd done so with no small amount of difficulty. Kitt was designed to handle severe winter weather about as well as a champion racehorse was designed to figure skate. But they'd managed, slowly and very, very carefully. They'd been heading down the other side of the pass, south in direction and precipitously down in altitude toward the town of Silverton, and perhaps because they had made it through the hard part, they'd let down their guard.

The stretch of ice hadn't seemed particularly threatening, given what they'd already traversed, at least not until they'd found themselves skidding and then spinning out of control, helplessly picking up speed as they skated down the steep incline, heading headlong toward the drop-off. Michael had no idea how he'd managed to alter their trajectory, turning them away from the drop-off and into the sheer rockface on the other side of the road instead. He could only chalk it up to the truly amazing things that one could do under the influence of completely panicked adrenaline.

So now here they were. It was just past 6PM, and the sun was starting to set. It was frigidly cold, and the snow was coming down in proverbial buckets, accumulating rapidly, quickly blanketing Kitt in a shroud of pristine white as well as coating the surrounding bare rock and sparse smattering of trees, some of which were stubbornly clinging to pathetic remains of brilliant fall color. The snow was driven by winds that were increasing in speed almost by the minute; a full-blown blizzard appeared to be setting in, which was not a pleasant prospect at all. They needed to get moving, needed to get out of the mountains and down to a saner altitude as soon as possible.

Which was going to be easier said than done, it seemed. Kitt's rear wheels were sitting squarely on sheer ice. He had zero traction, and spinning his wheels would only make the ice under them smoother, slicker. Michael might have been able to give him a push to get some momentum going, except that his front end was crammed into the rockface, not to mention partially buried under large chunks of loose rock that his impact had dislodged. There was no way in hell that Michael was going to be able to get in front of Kitt, at least not without the help of a backhoe. And the grappling hook trick wouldn't work; there was nothing behind Kitt but the drop-off, so there was nothing to grab on to. Michael sighed deeply, slumping against Kitt's flank, and the air he expelled puffed away on the wind.

"Bad," Kitt surmised mildly as he watched Michael's posture slump.

"Bad," Michael confirmed with another sigh. He thoughtlessly went to rub at his forehead, which quickly reminded him that touching it wasn't the best of all possible ideas. And then, out of the blue, a thought occurred to him. "Wait! We have tire chains, right?" Michael asked.

"Yes, in the trunk," Kitt answered, popping it without being told to do so. "You bought them after that…er, incident…in the Sierras."

"Ah, yes," Michael said with a fond smile. He lowered his voice dramatically as he added, "The Incident."

"Do _not_ remind me," Kitt muttered.

"Hey, look on the bright side, pal. Because of The Incident, I bought those chains. And they should give you enough traction to get us out of here now. I think," he added with a frown.

"You _think_?" Kitt echoed dubiously.

"You never know until you try, right?" Michael answered with a smile, giving the roof of the car an encouraging pat and then shivering and blowing on his hands.

"Yes, but do you know how to put them on?" Kitt asked warily.

"Oh, how hard can it be?" Michael asked back with a cavalier shrug. He shook his head to dislodge the snow that was accumulating in his hair. It was melting, and the resulting ice-cold water was dripping down his face and the back of his neck, making him feel even colder than he already felt.

"Michael, _please_ read the instructions," Kitt implored, meanwhile. "Bonnie did tell me that doing so is difficult if not impossible for humans who possess 'Y' chromosomes, but the last time you tried to do something to me without reading the instructions, I ended up with—"

"Yeah, yeah," Michael interrupted. "I know. And you wouldn't shut up about it for a month. I've learned my lesson, all right?"

"I've heard that one before," Kitt muttered.

Michael snorted and made a move to turn toward the trunk. But as he turned, he momentarily, fatefully, forgot that he was standing on sheer ice. His feet flew out from under him as he unthinkingly twisted his body, and with nothing to break his fall but the very cold, ice-slicked flank of a certain Trans Am – which was no help at all – he landed hard, squarely on his butt.

"Ow!" he yelled, loudly enough that the yell echoed off the rocks, reverberating a number of times before it faded.

"Michael?" Kitt immediately responded. "Are you all right?"

Michael's only response was a long and particularly vile stream of very creative cursing. Kitt inwardly gave him a "10" for originality and then prompted "Michael?" again after the cursing subsided. There was a higher level of urgent concern in his query this time.

"I'm all right," Michael answered in a half-mutter/half-whimper. "Just…tailbone. Why do we even _have_ this thing, for God's sake?" he demanded of the universe. "Ow ow ow ow ow…"

"You can blame the inefficient and highly conservative nature of the evolutionary process," Kitt answered mildly as Michael continued his muttered mantra of pain. "Too bad you weren't intelligently designed, like me," Kitt couldn't resist teasing.

"Yeah, well," Michael groused back, "at least _I_ can move right now, which is more than I can say for _some_ people, Mr. Intelligently-Designed. Too bad your so-called intelligent designer didn't see fit to give you four-wheel drive."

Kitt hmphed and watched as Michael gingerly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He used that more stable, low-to-the-ground configuration to crawl to the open trunk and then used the lip of it to haul himself carefully to his feet. He rummaged around in the trunk until he found the tire chains and then he sank back down to his knees, next to one of Kitt's rear tires. He uttered a curse, both at the sharp pain that was relentlessly shooting out from the base of his spine as well as at the deep cold that was now biting through the knees of his jeans, and then he sat back on his heels and speculatively regarded the tangle of chain in his hands.

And then he smiled as he said, "Hey, guess what, pal?"

"What?" Kitt responded.

"No instructions."

Kitt cursed brightly, vehemently. Creatively, even. Michael snickered delightedly and mentally upped his estimation of Kitt's overall level of corruption to 78%. Things were proceeding very nicely on that front, indeed...

* * *

><p>About forty-five minutes later, it was hard to see any vestiges of black under the thick blanket of white that lay over Kitt. It did sparkle rather prettily in the pallid pink streaks of sunset that somehow managed to breach the cloud cover swathing the sky, but that was pretty much the only good thing about it. The snow was still coming down, had actually increased in intensity, and the wind was starting to howl in the key of D for "deep freeze." Michael was half frozen to death. His hands and feet were mostly numb – but unfortunately, his head and his back weren't – and he was beginning to resemble the Abominable Snowman. Hypothermia was obviously settling in, too, because he was feeling a bit loopy around the edges, occasionally thinking that it would be a really good idea to rip off his clothes and run into the hills or maybe indulge in a bit of impromptu cliff diving.<p>

But still and all, the indisputable fact remained that Kitt now had chains on all four of his tires. And much to Kitt's relief, no collateral damage had occurred during the process of applying them. He was hopeful that the trend would continue, assuming that he'd be able to move now…

Michael crawled around Kitt's back end and then up to the driver's side door, which Kitt obligingly opened for him, and then hauled himself wearily into the Trans Am's cabin, in which Kitt had obligingly cranked up the heat. It had to be at least ninety-five degrees in the cabin, and Michael cherished every last blessed, blissful tenth of a degree. He luxuriated in the heat for an indecently long moment while various parts of his anatomy began to thaw, and then he murmured a reverent, "Thanks, pal."

"_De nada_," Kitt answered. A moment later, he added, "Now, answer me this, please: Why are we here?"

"Was that a deeply profound existential kind of question, the kind generally asked when sitting on top of a mountain?" Michael riposted with a dreamy smile.

"No," Kitt patiently answered. "It was more of a whatever-were-you-thinking kind of question."

"Ah," Michael replied as he slowly blinked his way back to reality. "Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time," he confessed after a moment's consideration. "A nice scenic drive that meant that it'd take just a little longer to get back to the real world where Devon can hunt us down. Buuuuut in hindsight…I guess I wasn't thinking."

Kitt made Exasperated Noise #3, indicating the I-told-you-so kind of exasperated.

"This is not a case of you not thinking, Michael," Kitt lectured on cue. "This is, as usual, a case of you not listening to me. When you were talking about going this way, taking the 'scenic route,' as it were, I _clearly_ recall telling you that A) the first snow at 11,000 feet above sea level at this latitude generally occurs in mid-August and then reminding you that B) I am in no way, shape, or form designed for snow. Or, God forbid, ice. In case you've suddenly become calendar-impaired, let me point out to you that it's the first week of October."

"Very funny," Michael answered. "But I _was_ listening to you, you know. So much so that I _clearly_ recall you saying that the forecast was clear for today as well as the next few days."

"Well, then you _obviously_ weren't listening closely enough," Kitt retorted. "Because I _also_ said that the only really predictable thing about the weather up here is its unpredictability. Record snowfalls have occurred on days when the forecast called for nothing but clear skies. And," he added, "you do _not_ want to know what a record snowfall entails up here. If we don't get moving soon, we might not get out of here until June. Of course, that's assuming that an avalanche doesn't take us out first…" he finished with deep foreboding in his voice.

"Well, then," Michael said with a game sigh. "Let's see what we've got, huh?"

He slipped the car into reverse and then very carefully gave it a tiny bit of gas, very aware that, given the grossly over-powered nature of the turbine-driven engine lurking under Kitt's hood, it would be very easy to send them shooting in a blaze of glorious death over the cliff directly behind them. Distressingly, the rear wheels only spun…for half a round, but then the chains dug in and caught on God knew what, but whatever it was, Michael silently blessed it. Kitt began to inch slowly backwards. The tires still slipped here and there, but they always caught again as they inched. Slowly, Kitt's front end dislodged itself from the rockface, triggering a minor snowy landslide as the chunks of rock that had been sitting on Kitt's hood shifted and then fell to the ground. And then eventually, moving very slowly and carefully, Kitt ended up in the proper lane, facing the right way. Unnervingly, the proper lane was the drop-off side of the road, but there was nothing to be done about that.

Abruptly, Kitt took control of the car.

"Hey!" Michael protested.

"My turn," Kitt announced serenely.

"You've never driven in this kind of stuff," Michael pointed out.

"True," Kitt allowed. "But I could hardly do worse than you did," he added archly.

"Well, you _could_, actually," Michael pointed out, peering nervously at the drop-off. Almost blessedly, its heart-stopping depth was now concealed by the deepening twilight as well as clouds that were lower down than they were. It didn't look nearly so threatening that way.

"But I _won't _do worse," Kitt was replying, still serenely, meanwhile.

And Michael had to admit that he had a point. If nothing else, Kitt did have a more intimate feel for the car, it being his body and all, and his reaction times were much faster than Michael's were, both of which were advantages given the current conditions. Besides, he was sleepy, likely the combined result of mild hypothermia and a minor head injury; it probably wasn't the best idea in the world for him to be driving, especially not in current conditions. So, surrendering without much of a fight, Michael lifted his hands from the steering column.

"Have at it, pal," he said with a smile.

Kitt flipped up the headlights. He didn't need them at all, but on the off-chance that anyone else was insane enough to be up here in a blizzard, they would at least have a better chance of seeing Kitt if the headlights were lit. Then he cranked the transmission down into its lowest possible gear, released the brake…and then crept forward. Very painfully _slowly_ crept forward. Kitt was easily capable of 200mph+ speeds without breaking a proverbial sweat; now, the goal was not to break into two-digit speeds if at all possible, at least not until they descended to a more reasonable altitude, all without applying the brakes or at least applying them as little as possible. It was a tall order, especially in a car that lacked a manual transmission, but if anyone could manage it, it would be Kitt.

"Well." Kitt announced resignedly after they'd taken a few minutes to creep a quarter of a mile. "At this rate, we'll reach Durango, 63.8 miles away, in approximately…seven hours."

"Good!" Michael said, far too cheerfully, as he reclined the driver's seat. "You just take your sweet old time, Kitt. Take as much time as you want, even. Because my head is killing me, my back is aching from the tailbone up to my brain stem…and I could really, _really_ use a nap."

"A nap!" Kitt protested. "But…if you nap…who will I complain to?"

"God," Michael suggested with a smirk.

Kitt hmphed; Michael laughed.

"As for me," he said, still chortling, "I'm just gonna drift off to sleep now, lulled by the sound of your sweet, sweet whining."

Kitt could only hmph again as Michael closed his eyes. That, and drive very, _very_ slowly.

And, of course, do his level best not to whine.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Note:<strong>__ Yeah, you just go ahead and GIS Red Mountain Pass, suckas. I double-dog dare ya. ;) And then I'll tell you all about my "wonderful" experience when I spontaneously (and stupidly) decided that I wanted to go have a swim up at Ouray's fabulous hot spring pool one fine December weekend…_

_**Review replies!**_

_**The Vigilant Sleeper:**__ Yeah, Kitt's like a dog on a bone sometimes. He just won't let go. And, of course, he has to have the last word. Especially if whatever he's doing or saying makes Michael squirm. It almost makes me feel sorry for Michael. But only almost. :)_

_**Jalaperilo:**__ No Hulu across the pond? Bummer. Bah, probably has something to do with copyright/licensing issues. So I guess YouTube's better than nothing. It's just really slow for me, but that could be because I don't exactly have the zippiest Internet connection on the planet. But yeah, I agree that Kitt was just pulling Michael's leg to make him squirm. However, it could be interpreted in many ways. *laughs* It __**could**__ be that Michael doth protest too much… ;)_

_**Melody Phoenix:**__ I am happy to have inspired, and I look forward to seeing what you might write, should you choose to share. As for Kitt…Sometimes I think "disturbing" is his middle name. It's amazing what a lack of shame and a dash of innocence and a not a little bit of evil-mindedness can come up with… ;)_

_**And in general:**__ I'm always happy to spread some Queen love around. It helps that that song is perfect, in a somewhat hilarious way, for _Knight Rider_ fans, even though the song was around long before _Knight Rider_. '75, I think? Now to spread around some obscure Moody Blues love, oh yeaaahhhh… ;)_

_**Also in general:**__ Thanks to you many folks who haven't commented but who've faved/alerted this thing. I'm very happy to know that you think it's worthy of watching. That actually means just as much to me as reviews/comments. :)_


	6. So Happy Together

_Up front, before anyone can go all Canon Nazi on my hiney: Yes, I __**know**__ there is a 4__th__ season episode with a Kitt-can't-sing subplot kind of thing. It's been a long time since I've seen any 4__th__ season episodes, not since watching syndicated reruns many, many moons ago. I haven't even watched the DVDs I bought yet, since I decided to re-watch the show in order, and I only just started the 3__rd__ season last night. But I __**do**__ distinctly remember that bit from watching the show all the way back in the day. Because it ticked me off. Seriously, it did!_

_Because…Well, because that's rubbish, and such character assassination offends me. ;) Kitt can synthesize any sound he desires. A series of musical tones, no matter how complex, in his own voice would be child's play, at least from a purely technical point of view…and singing, of course, is not all straight technical stuff and involves way more than just being able to produce pure tones and blah blah blah. Still, I imagine that Kitt could, for instance, simultaneously "sing" a perfectly modulated three-part harmony with himself that would put the Bee Gees to shame, if he wanted to. _

_Besides, in the first season, Kitt claims that he has perfect pitch, which I find far more believable, given what he is. He even calls having perfect pitch a cross to bear, as I very well imagine that it would be at times. I don't have perfect pitch, but about 35 years of playing the cello off and on has served to give me a good degree of relative pitch, which causes a certain degree of cringing when listening to certain "musicians" at times. Especially live, when they don't have the benefit of slick post-production to fix their intonation issues. If I had perfect pitch…I truly shudder to think about it. _

_Which, along with watching the delightfully cheesy "Michael Goes Rock Star" episode, led me to write this… *snicker* Look out! Song fic! Well, sort of…_

* * *

><p><strong>So Happy Together<strong>  
>(Or: In Which Kitt is Long-Suffering and Michael is Off-Key)<p>

Michael Knight was singing his way across the great state of Kansas.

Kansas was, at least according to Michael, the most boring place to drive through on the entire planet. On the surface, it was a grossly illogical statement, given that Michael hadn't actually driven through every place in the United States, much less the entire planet, so he had not nearly enough data upon which to base such a sweeping statement. Normally, Kitt loved nothing more than to point out Michael's alarmingly frequent lapses into irrationality and then endlessly poke fun at him for them.

But in this one particular, isolated case…Kitt whole-heartedly agreed with Michael, baseless illogic be damned. Kansas seemed to consist of nothing but straight, flat roads with absolutely nothing to see from horizon to horizon except flat land that was devoted to various forms of agriculture. In short, there was absolutely nothing to prevent one from falling asleep. Kitt fancifully imagined that, if it were possible, Kansas might even manage to put _him_ to sleep.

Which was exactly why Michael tended to sing when driving across Kansas. It helped to keep him awake, if he wanted to stay awake. Unfortunately, the habit generally annoyed Kitt. Kansas was amongst the wider states in the country, and they were usually driving across its width on their way to some place _not_ in Kansas. And unless they were naughty and severely broke the speed limit – which they had been known to do on occasion, just to shorten the duration of the pain – it took a long time to escape Kansas's clutches. That meant, for Kitt, listening to hours and hours of singing.

Which, of course, tended to grate on Kitt's perfect pitch after not very much time had passed at all.

"_Please_, Michael," Kitt imploringly interrupted once he reached his breaking point about a quarter of the way through this particular trek across Kansas, heading west toward home. He was trying to keep his long-suffering annoyance out of his voice, but he wasn't succeeding very well. "This song that you're theoretically singing is in E-minor."

"_Theoretically_ singing?" Michael huffed, interrupting himself smack in the middle of a chorus.

"Yes, theoretically singing," Kitt smoothly replied, deliberately ignoring his partner's ruffled feathers. "And as I said, E-minor. As such, the note on the third syllable of the word 'imagine' in the opening verse is an F-_sharp_, not an F."

"It was sharp!" Michael protested.

"Hardly," Kitt scoffed. "Semi-sharp, at best. Which, I might add is almost worse than not sharp at all."

Michael grumbled something under his breath that Kitt didn't catch because he was too busy launching himself into full-blown lecture mode.

"In addition, the same note occurs another eight times in the first verse and then ten times in the second verse before the first iteration of the chorus, at which point the key temporarily changes to—"

"All right, all right!" Michael interrupted. "Your point?"

"My _point_," Kitt said primly, "is that all of those F-sharps should sound the _same_. And they should all be, indeed, sharp. Equally and _properly_ sharp. _Not_ semi-sharp. Also," Kitt further complained, "the held note on the end of the word 'together' is a B, not a B-flat. It's almost an entire fifth up from the accidental D-sharp that precedes it. And I have to listen to that particular note for five whole beats, you know, so I would appreciate it if you could produce it such that it didn't grate on my auditory sensors."

Michael aimed a glare at the voice modulator and then he rolled his eyes and sighed resignedly.

"Y'know," he said, "I think I like you better when you're a backseat driver, as opposed to a backseat choir director."

"Well, if you're going to sing at all," Kitt haughtily sniffed, "you should at least _attempt_ to do it properly."

"Oh, what do you know?" Michael groused. "You can't sing."

"I _could_," Kitt asserted.

Michael blinked, nonplussed.

"If I wanted to, that is," Kitt added before Michael could summon a reply.

"And…I take it you don't want to," Michael surmised.

"It's more that I don't see the point of doing so," Kitt answered truthfully, with a verbal shrug. "My programming includes the capacity for absolute pitch as well as finely-tuned auditory sensors for the purpose of being able to analyze and, when necessary, accurately reproduce properly-modulated sounds, not for the purpose of singing silly songs. So…as I said, I fail to see the point."

Michael sighed.

"Well," he said, "there really is no _point_ to singing, Kitt. Singing is just…fun."

"Fun?" Kitt echoed dubiously.

"Yeah," Michael echoed. "You know…fun. It's enjoyable. Passes the time. Alleviates massive amounts of Kansas-induced boredom."

"I _know_ what fun is," Kitt snipped.

"Coulda fooled me!" Michael shot back.

Kitt hmphed, mostly because he was vastly irritated that he'd left himself so wide-open for that comeback.

"And you know…" Michael continued, his voice suddenly waxing all silkily persuasive. "You'll never know how fun singing is until you try it…"

Kitt hmphed again, peevishly this time.

"You just don't believe that I could do it," he decided. "And you're trying to bait me into putting my money where my mouth is. So to speak."

"Oooh, got it in one," Michael answered with a smirking smile and a snap of his fingers.

Kitt emitted a sigh.

"Fine," he said with deep resignation, knowing that he wasn't going to get out of the hole that he'd dug for himself any other way. "You sing the melody. I'll take the harmony. Because I _don't_ want to hear how badly you'd butcher _that_."

Michael grinned as he rewound the tape. And then, after the opening guitar riff, he sang, paying meticulous attention to the nine F-sharps and the interval between the final two notes of the verse,

"_Imagine me and you, I do  
>I think about you day and night, it's only right<br>To think about the girl you love, and hold her tight  
>So happy together…"<em>

Michael continued to pay meticulous attention to intonation as he proceeded on to the second verse, knowing all too well that the harmony kicked in there. And he'd be _damned_ if he'd let Kitt show him up.

He sang, _"If I should call you up, invest a dime…"_ while Kitt harmonized _"Call you up,"_ in perfect, slowly descending thirds in the background, expertly stretching the phrase across the entire line of the melody and even into the next one. Kitt's harmony blended into Michael's,_ "And you say you belong to me and ease my mind" _which was counterpointed by Kitt's eventual, harmonizing _"Ease my mind." _And then it was on to Michael's,_ "Imagine how the world could be so very fine" _and Kitt's_ "Very fine" _and thence to the end of the verse, where Michael, much to Kitt's deep satisfaction, hit the final D-sharp-to-B interval perfectly on "_So happy together."_

They launched into the first iteration of the chorus in perfect unison then…and Kitt found himself thinking – although he'd never admit it to Michael except under extreme duress – that it _was_ fun…

"_I can't see me loving nobody but you  
>For all my life<br>When you're with me, baby, the skies'll be blue  
>For all my life…"<em>

Michael was grinning like a complete lunatic as he began the third verse. His attention to intonation was faltering at the speed of light…but he didn't give it a second thought.

"_Me and you, and you and me_," he crooned while Kitt laid a slow, cooing "_You and me_" down in the background. Michael continued, "_No matter how they toss the dice, it had to be_," while Kitt floated a perfectly modulated "_Dice will be_" behind it. Then there was, "_The only one for me is you, and you for me_," with an accompanying, lilting "_You for me_" before they hit "_So happy together_" in, indeed, happy, perfect unison.

After that, once they'd launched into the chorus again, it all just devolved into a happy but rather chaotic mess. They ad-libbed, sometimes singing in unison, sometimes randomly tossing melody and harmony at each other, all while belting out the words at the tops of lungs and synthesizers, respectively. Kitt couldn't help but be in tune – perfectly, rigorously, mathematically in tune – but Michael found himself not caring too much about little details like that, instead losing himself in the simple joy of singing a simple, fun song that reminded him of much simpler times, all while vigorously seat-dancing. In fact, he was so vigorously seat-dancing that Kitt surreptitiously took over driving the car, for fear of Michael slewing the thing all over the interstate in his enthusiasm, and possibly ramming its nigh-indestructible self into very destructible – and innocent – surrounding vehicles at rather high speeds. Kitt could easily sing and drive at the same time without the possibility, perhaps even the _probability_, of killing someone.

And, in the end, Kitt found himself not caring about the rather alarming level of sheer, unadulterated dissonance that Michael was producing. He was, in fact, almost having too much fun to notice it. He was, in fact, having far, _far_ too much fun, in general.

And then, as Michael and Kitt reluctantly finished the song a few minutes later and the final dissonant-but-happy chord faded into the relative silence of road noise, the sound of applause suddenly pattered through Kitt's cabin. The unexpected sound fiercely startled Michael, especially once a dulcet, perfectly modulated British voice said, with no small amount of amusement, "Bravo."

Michael's gaze jerked toward the dashboard monitors so quickly that a twinge of sharp, sudden pain shot up the side of his neck and into his brain. Sure enough, Devon was peering at him from out of one of the monitors. And he was… Damn, he was _smirking_. For a long moment, Michael could only stare back at him, wide-eyed, feeling his cheeks flush and silently cursing them for doing so.

"Devon!" he eventually managed to say, mortified. "Hi! …Um, how long have you…?"

"Oh, since very shortly into the first verse," Devon merrily informed him, blue eyes twinkling. "I must say, Kitt, that I'm very impressed with your ability to harmonize on the fly with someone who is singing so grossly off-key."

"Hey!" Michael protested while Kitt simultaneously and rather immodestly murmured, "Thank you. It's a gift."

"In any case…" Devon began to say, no doubt launching into the real reason that he was calling to bug them. Michael tuned him out for a moment, aiming a glare at the voice modulator instead.

"Why didn't you tell me he was there?" he demanded of Kitt. He did so under his breath, but he knew that Kitt could hear him perfectly well, what with those finely-tuned auditory sensors of his and all.

"Well, I didn't want to interrupt the fun," Kitt just as quietly answered. His answer was serene, unapologetic, unembarrassed. And truthful.

In response, Michael could only sigh, slumping down in his seat. While he half-listened to Devon, he glumly reflected that he was probably the only person on the planet whose car had the ability to unwittingly embarrass him to death. He also had the distinct, sinking feeling that he'd just created yet another monster.

* * *

><p><em>Apologies to any Kansas-dwellers out there but…Well, I'm sorry. The fact of the matter is that you live in a very boring state, at least when it comes to driving through it. Me and I-70, we go <em>way_ back, you see. ;) _

_And it's funny; I tend to write to music, creating a playlist as I go along that, for whatever reason, puts Brain into the groove for writing whatever story or "universe" it is that I'm writing. I've got a _Knight Rider_ playlist going and growing now and, for some bizarre reason, given that the show itself featured covers of then-current top 10s, my writing playlist for the show seems to be skewing much more toward late 60s and 70s stuff, particularly stuff that has a folky flavor. Go figure. _

_And yeah, "Happy Together," from 1967, is on there; the third verse, which gets repeated such that it's almost a chorus, and the actual chorus, in particular, make me think of Michael and Kitt, I'm afraid. :) S'why I picked it. That, and it's a song that, if you live in the West and don't live under a rock, you probably know just because they seem to use the chorus in commercials all the time. And it has lots of harmony. And I have sheet music for it. :) So…yeah._

_**Review replies!**_

_**Tiamat:**__ Y'know, the mountains, they's weird. At least, mine are. It's often warmer than you might think up there, which I suspect is a product of latitude, since we're actually fairly far south. It's very unpredictable, though. I made the drive up to Silverton at 9500 feet a couple of weekends ago to take fall pics, and it was in the 60s (Fahrenheit, of course. ;) ), but I've also been up there at this time of year when it hasn't cracked the teens. But still… Yeah, what WAS Michael thinking? *snicker* I'll chalk it up to being an air-headed California beach boy. ;)_

_Anyway, all that said, yes, I do tend to like to be atmospheric and realistic, even when I'm dealing with fantastical things like AI-driven cars and giant robots. It's something that I always strive for, but I can sometimes go way overboard with it; it's a delicate balance. I'm very happy that you appreciate it! :)_

_**Elita**__: No, Peter Cullen did the voice of Kitt's evil twin. (Because, you know, everyone has one. ;)) But that was only for the first of the two episodes that feature said evil twin, which was in the show's 1__st__ season. By the time of the 2__nd__ evil twin episode, two seasons later, I imagine Peter Cullen might have been too busy being Optimus Prime, since the third season of the show was in '84-'85. ;) Still, that one is a fun episode to watch for a crossover TF/KR fan. :) You might want to watch the show; it tends to appeal to people who like Transformers, given that KR features a sentient machine, too. It's a silly 80s show, in general, but if you can stomach the pure, unadulterated silliness of Old Skool Transformers, then Knight Rider should be a piece of cake. *laughs* Plus, Kitt's adorable. Way more adorable than any Transformer…outside of maybe Sludge. _Maybe_._

_**Vigilant Sleeper:**__ Yes, well, kvetching is a big part of Kitt's life. He does it…a lot. *laughs* And it's very important to have someone around to listen to it. God's always a good fallback. ;)_

_**Jalaperilo**__: Hey, you just come on over across the pond and visit our vistas anytime you like. My door's always open. :) If you're brave and don't have a problem with heights, we'll even go for a cruise up 550. ;) But yes, I do love living here, though I wish it were a bit less expensive. And sometimes, the snow can be a real bitch when it comes down in amounts measured in feet, as it often tends to do. *laughs*_

_But yeah, the banter is fun. :) And, yeah, the bromance. These two are like Wheeljack and Ratchet to me. They pick at each other constantly, but you just _know_ that they totally love each other to death. And it's all fun to write. Then again, it's not so fun when it wakes you up at god-awful hours, demanding to be written, but…Well, we all have our crosses to bear. ;)_


	7. Brought to You by the Letter R

_Yes, yes. Watch and wonder as Nightwind insults people from all across America. It's what I do. At least you folks in Kansas won't feel singled-out now. Apologies in advance._

* * *

><p><strong>Brought to You by the Letter 'R'<strong>  
>(Or: In Which Kitt is Dialectically Analytical and Michael Is Amused)<p>

Michael Knight was simultaneously enduring two of the items on the "Top 10 Things Guaranteed to Make Michael Knight Grumpy" list. One was a huge traffic jam that had resulted in complete standstill. The other was rain. Unfortunately, it wasn't the kind of pounding, down-pouring rain wrought by a vicious desert thunderstorm; that kind of rain was exhilarating, not to mention delightfully short-lived. No, the kind of rain that Michael was experiencing was cold, dull, drizzling rain that just went on…and on…for days, sometimes for a week or more. The sky was an unending vista of dull, depressing grey, the kind of grey sky that had the power to make one believe that it had never, at any point in time, been blue.

"Why do people even live in Seattle?" Michael rhetorically wondered.

Kitt, of course, didn't believe in rhetorical questions.

"For the climate, obviously," he dryly answered, which at least brought an amused smirk that almost managed to be a smile to Michael's face.

"Y'know, it's no wonder that they're all a bunch of coffee-guzzling depressed people up here," Michael muttered. "And why the hell is traffic so backed up?" he suddenly and much more loudly demanded to know. "It's not rush hour."

"There's been an accident approximately 2.5 miles ahead," Kitt reported. "It involves a tractor-trailer, a bus, and two passenger vehicles. They've just called for two helicopters," he added quietly.

"Oh," Michael answered, his grumpiness abruptly mitigated by a measure of sadness. "Well. Guess we're gonna be sitting here for a while, then."

"Apparently so," Kitt answered grimly.

Since it wasn't as if they were going to be moving any time soon, Michael slipped the Trans Am into park so that he could take his foot of the brake before his foot went completely numb. He leaned back in the driver's seat then, crossing his arms behind his head, trying to make himself comfortable for the long haul. He yawned prodigiously as he listened to the steady pattering of the rain against the car for a long moment. And then, out of the blue, Michael asked, "Have I ever mentioned how much I love the way you say the word 'helicopter?'"

Kitt was quiet for a moment, which was his version of a perplexed, blinking frown.

"You do?" he eventually asked, his tone of voice completely bemused.

"Yeah!" Michael enthusiastically answered. "Or really, I love the way you say _any_ word that ends with the letter 'R.' I mean, what is it with you and that letter?"

Kitt made Exasperated Noise #1, the one that said, "Oh God, my partner's gone off the deep end again."

"I can hardly be held accountable for the regional accent that I was given," he patiently informed Michael.

"But see, that's just it!" Michael exclaimed, suddenly sitting up perfectly upright in his seat, as if he'd just made the world's most important discovery. "You say the word 'hardly' and it comes out all 'hahdly.' Not an 'R' in sight. Or in…earshot, as the case may be. But then you say the word 'regional' just like a normal person."

"A normal person?" Kitt echoed, dubiously amused.

"Yeah!" Michael answered. "You know, a normal person. As in, 'a person not from New England.'"

Kitt made another exasperated noise at that.

Michael, heedless, continued, "But see, just then, 'normal' and 'person' were…well, normal, too, when you said them. And the 'R' is in the middle of both those words, too, like it is in 'hardly,' so… What's the difference?"

"Hmmm," Kitt murmured, actually starting to give the subject a bit of serious thought. He took a moment to review what he and Michael had said over the last few minutes. "Apparently," he discovered after a bit of analysis, "the phenomenon is two-fold. First, it has something to do with the position of the letter 'R' in the word. Words beginning with 'R' are 'normal,' as you term it. However, when words or syllables end in 'R'—"

"Like the word 'howevah,'" Michael teasingly interrupted.

"Like the word 'however,'" Kitt agreed, peevishly ending the word with an exaggerated 'er' sound, "then the 'R' is…"

"Mutilated," Michael supplied with a grin as Kitt's voice trailed off. "Chopped off. Beheaded. _Castrated_."

"I wouldn't go _that_ far, Michael," Kitt huffed.

"'Fah,'" Michael echoed with a snicker.

"Will you _stop_?" Kitt snipped, in answer to which Michael just snickered harder, "In any case," Kitt continued over Michael's snickering, "apparently the proximity of the letter 'A' to the letter 'R' is also of importance."

"'A?'" Michael echoed.

"Yes," Kitt answered. "Because when I say 'car' or 'park' or 'partner,' it comes out the same way that 'hardly' does. But that doesn't happen when a consonant or any other vowel precedes the 'R.' At least, not as much…"

Michael considered that for a moment.

"I dunno, Kitt," he answered. "There's a flaw in your reasoning somewhere."

"Excuse me?" Kitt huffed, offended. "There is _not_."

"There is, too! Because it doesn't happen when you say 'apparently,' either. Which, unless I've forgotten my third-grade spelling, has an 'A' before the 'R,'" Michael smugly informed him.

"Hmmm," Kitt murmured again. "You're right," he conceded. He gave the issue some more thought, eventually realizing, "Ah, I see. It has to do with how the 'A' is pronounced in the word in question. When it's pronounced as a long 'ah' sort of sound, any 'R' behind it seems to simply merge with the overall 'ah' sound. The word 'apparently' does not have the 'ah' sound."

Michael hmphed, a habit he'd picked up from Kitt. He was quiet for a moment, and then he announced, "It all kinda makes me wonder about kids in Boston who watch _Sesame__ Street_, y'know?"

Kitt did the perplexed, blinking frown kind of silence again.

"I beg your pardon?" he eventually asked once he realized that he had no clue what Michael was talking about.

"Pahdon," Michael quietly snickered.

"Stop," Kitt warned, the threat level in his voice increasing rapidly to DEFCON 3.

"Or what?" Michael shot back.

"Or I'll tell Bonnie all about how, exactly, certain articles from her lingerie drawer ended up—"

"All right, all right!" Michael surrendered. "You have _far_ too much blackmail material on me," he grumbled.

"There is no such thing as too much blackmail material," Kitt asserted.

Michael snorted at that, and then silence reigned for a few moments, punctuated only by the sound of the steadily-falling raindrops splattering gently against Kitt and the occasional swoosh-bump of the windshield wipers clearing off the windshield.

"So what about kids in Boston who watch _Sesame__ Street_?" Kitt eventually prompted, dubious curiosity as usual getting the better of him.

"Well," Michael explained with a grin, "you know how each episode of the show is said to be sponsored by a letter of the alphabet?"

"Yes?" Kitt answered, still perplexed.

"Well, it kinda makes me wonder how the kids in Boston react when it's sponsored by the letter 'R,'" Michael further explained. "Do ya think they look at each other all surprised, and go, 'Whoa! What the hell is an 'R?''"

Kitt sighed exasperatedly, wishing that he hadn't asked.

"I think that we should stop picking on my accent," he wearily suggested, "and start picking on yours, Michael."

"Hey, I'm California born and raised, baby," Michael proudly announced with a happy grin. "_We_ don't have a regional accent," he smugly claimed.

"_Au__ contraire_. Lack of an accent is, in itself, an accent," Kitt pointed out, in answer to which Michael snorted. "Besides which," Kitt continued, "it's all relative, anyway. Devon claims that _he_ doesn't have an accent. He says that it's the rest of us who have, and I quote, 'a problem with the bloody English language.'"

"True," Michael allowed. And then, after a brief silence, he added with a resigned sigh, "Well, I suppose that when all is said and done, it could be a lot worse."

"How so?" Kitt curiously asked.

"You _could_ have a Texas accent," Michael answered with a wicked grin.

"Perish the thought," Kitt responded, immediately and completely horrified.

Michael just laughed. And then he spent the rest of the hour or so during which they were stuck in the traffic jam amusing himself by imagining Kitt with a stupidly exaggerated Texas cowboy accent. As a result, much to Kitt's vast annoyance, he suffered occasional but prolonged fits of mad chortling. But it was, in Michael's opinion, much better than being grumpy.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Review replies!<strong>_

_**Melody**__**Phoenix:**__ Notice__ it?__ Woo __boy. __I__ remember__ ranting__ at __length __to__ my __live-in__ boyfriend__ at__ the __time__ about__ it,__ and__ him __answering,__ "__Jesus,__Kath,__ it__'__s__ just__ a__ stupid__ TV__ show!__" __Shoulda__ known__ then__ that__ the__ relationship__ was __doooooooomed.__;)__ I__'__m __almost __afraid__ to__ watch __the __4__th__ season__ again__ because __it__'__ll __piss__ me__ off __again.__*laughs*_

_As for writing these… Nope, not written in advance. I'm just writing 'em as they come to me. Generally, a line of dialogue explodes in my brain, usually at some god-awful hour when I should be asleep, and then it just goes on its merry way from there, demanding to be written. Takes me anywhere from about fifteen minutes to a couple of hours to write them. But once the voices stop feeding me lines, these little stories will dry up, too. That's how it goes with me, I'm afraid._

_**Jalaperilo: **__Exactly!__ That__ little __story-thing__ was __an__ unfortunate__ outcome__ of __the__ "__The__ Hoff__ Gets__ to__ Sing__" __episode.__ Seeing __it__ again__ did __bad,__ bad__ things__ to__ my __poor__ wee __brain,__ alas.__*sigh*__But __yeah,__ that__ song_ was_ made __for__ them,__ wasn__'__t__ it?__ So__ are__ many__ James__ Taylor__ songs,__ at__ least__ according__ to _my_ brain.__ I__ don__'__t__ get __it,__ myself__…__but__ there__ it__ is. __And__ yeah,__ Kitt__'__s__ shamelessness __is__ so__ very__ fun__ to__ play __with. __He __knows__ just __how __to __work__ it, __after __all. __:)_


	8. Zoological Imperative

_Well, damn me if I'm not prolific lately. It's a little scary, actually... *shakes head, wanders off*_**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Zoological<strong>** Imperative****  
><strong>(Or: In Which Kitt is Enlightened and Michael is Edumacated)

"I understand now!" Kitt happily announced out of the blue one fine day. He was driving the Trans Am down an annoyingly dusty dirt road while Michael was occupied with… Kitt wasn't entirely sure what Michael with occupied with, actually.

"Congratulations," Michael answered Kitt distractedly as he noisily pawed through a large, messy pile of cassette tapes that he'd dumped into the passenger seat. He was searching for the particular one that he wanted, and he was becoming increasingly irritated that he couldn't find it. But then the words that Kitt had said and, worse, the way that he'd said them fully seeped into his brain. Kitt had that innocently, happily dangerous note in his voice that usually meant that all sorts of trouble was looming on the horizon for Michael. He stopped what he was doing, aimed a suspicious scowl at the voice modulator, and asked, "Wait, _what_ do you understand now?"

"You," Kitt answered, still unsettlingly happy.

"Me?"

"Well, one aspect of you," Kitt qualified. "But it's one that's been puzzling me for quite some time. You see, you—"

"Wait!" Michael interrupted sharply. "I don't want to know."

"Why not?" Kitt asked with a sudden note of insulted sulkiness in his voice.

"Because," Michael answered, "whenever you claim to understand something about me, you always end up going all Freudian on me, and then I always end up sounding like the world's most depraved pervert."

"Oh, nonsense," Kitt scoffed. "You are no more depraved or perverted than any other member of your species who isn't afflicted with some kind of mental or behavioral disorder. In particular, you're no more depraved or perverted than the typical male of your species."

Michael snorted at that and said, "Y'know, you _really_ need to start tuning Bonnie out when she goes off on one of her picking-on-men binges. Sometimes I'm amazed that she decided to give you a male voice."

"She was overruled on the subject," Kitt replied.

Michael did a double take, blinked a few times, frowned, and then said, "Really?"

"No," Kitt answered evenly. "Really, you're so gullible sometimes, Michael."

"Really, you're such a brat sometimes," Michael muttered in return.

"So you say," Kitt replied levelly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "In any case, you know that Bonnie doesn't pick on men in general so much as she picks on you in particular, Michael."

"Well, whatever," Michael groused. "She's a _very_ bad influence on you, young man," he added scoldingly.

"Oddly enough," Kitt replied lightly, "she says the very same thing about you. _I_ happen to think that you're equally bad influences, but unfortunately I can't escape either of you."

Michael smiled at that, almost smugly.

"You're welcome!" he said airily.

Kitt made a scoffing noise, his version of an eye roll, and then he announced, "Well, you'll be happy to know that my new understanding is the result of neither Freudian psychoanalysis nor any evil, corrupting influence from either you or Bonnie."

"I'm so relieved," Michael drawled. "So…What _is_ it the result of?" he asked after a pause, although a nagging little voice in his head insistently warned him that he was going to kick himself for asking.

"Zoological research," Kitt answered. That dangerous happy tone was starting to creep back into his voice again, and in response, the warning bells in Michael's head increased in volume by several decibel levels.

"Zoological research?" Michael warily echoed.

"Yes, Michael," Kitt calmly confirmed. "_Extensive_ zoological research."

"Y'know, Kitt," Michael said. "I've always wondered something…When, exactly, do you find all this time to do all this weird researching stuff that you do?"

"Mostly when I'm surveilling and you're off doing your best to get yourself shot or otherwise mutilated in some manner," Kitt replied.

Michael gave the voice modulator an askance and somewhat outraged look.

"You…You're not supposed to be doing other stuff while you're surveilling!" he protested. "You're supposed to be…surveilling!"

"Oh please, Michael," Kitt responded patronizingly. "I'm a computer. I can walk and chew gum at the same time. As they say."

Michael blinked, still not quite believing what he was hearing.

"So when people start shooting at me, you're off…what? Observing the wildlife?"

"Sometimes," Kitt answered evenly. "Sometimes I'm stargazing. Sometimes I'm contemplating my existence. Sometimes I'm doing all of the above at once. Sometimes I'm—"

Michael rolled his eyes as he interrupted, "I don't believe you."

"Well, whether you believe me or not," Kitt answered reasonably, "I _am_ always there when you need me, am I not?"

Michael sighed and answered concedingly, "Yeah, you are, pal. You are. So…you just observe the wildlife and…whatever it is you do…all you want. Knock yourself out." He paused for a moment, and then he sighed heavily again and added, "And I know I'm going to hate myself in about five minutes for asking this, but… What's the big zoological revelation?"

"Ah, yes," Kitt replied. "I finally understand why you feel such a need to have so many girlfriends."

Michael groaned, and then he slumped forward and repeatedly banged his forehead against the gull-wing steering wheel. When he finished, he muttered, "How many times do I have to tell you that you're not my mother, Kitt?"

"I'm not going to lecture you, Michael," Kitt defensively protested.

"Well, there's a first," Michael muttered.

"In fact," Kitt continued, heedless "you might say that I'm going to compliment you."

"You're…what?" Michael responded, blinking like a particularly bewildered owl.

"Complimenting," Kitt repeated. "You see," he continued, "as a result of my studies, I've come to the conclusion that the Western system of monogamy, male monogamy in particular, directly conflicts with typical primate social structure. It makes me wonder why your species, or at least your culture, has developed such that it more or less vehemently insists upon it."

Michael gaped at the voice modulator for a long, long time.

"You…You wonder about _that_?" he eventually managed to ask.

"Indeed I do, yes. I find such strange twists and contradictions in human behavior interesting, sometimes even fascinating, to contemplate," Kitt replied evenly before launching into full-on lecture mode. "In this case, systematically speaking, _Homo__ sapiens_ is a species of great ape. Most of the great apes, except odd solitary ones like orangutans, live in extended family groups consisting of a dominant male and a number of females with whom he procreates. The practice is so widespread that it is likely hard-coded into the various primate species. Given that humans share up to 98%of their genome with their ape cohort, it's likely that the instinct is hard-wired into your own species as well. So I simply don't understand why human beings insist on denying and fighting against their inherent nature. Not only does it make no logical or even biological sense whatsoever to do so, but it only makes things harder on yourselves. On the other hand, you, Michael, are acting _completely_ logically, for once in your life, and in full accordance with the dictates of your natural instincts."

"Well…um… Thank you. I think," Michael said, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"You're welcome," Kitt happily replied. "Although you apes do, of course, have it backwards," he added.

"We do?" Michael asked.

"Yes," Kitt asserted. "One of the problems with monogamy is that, if practiced to extremes, it reduces genetic diversity by creating a greater number of very closely related offspring, thereby increasing the probability of inbreeding over time, which further reduces genetic diversity. Lack of genetic diversity has many well-documented detrimental effects on a species. Polygamy, on the other hand, increases genetic diversity. However, a _greater_ increase in diversity would result if each female would have several male mates, not the reverse. So you apes have it all wrong, actually. So does every other male-dominated social species, of course…"

Michael found himself laughing and shaking his head in disbelief as Kitt's voice trailed off.

"Y'know, Kitt," he said, "I never would have pegged you as a radical, but… Well, you certainly are one in some ways."

"_Someone_ has to be," Kitt sniffed. "I can't help it that your culture is dangerously backwards in many respects and that _I_ know how to fix it."

"Well, thank God for you, then," Michael replied.

"Indeed," Kitt gravely agreed, blithely ignoring the dripping, bleeding sarcasm in Michael's tone.

And with that, Michael rolled his eyes and returned to his search for that suddenly and maddeningly elusive Eagles tape.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Review replies!<strong>_

_**Luna:** Wow, so many comments! Thank you! :)_

_1) Yes, I agree that with Kitt's tech, he could most certainly sing…if he wanted to, and that's a big "if." And really, they could have done it on the show, if only because William Daniels (*cough* As opposed to David Hasselhoff *cough*) can sing. If you won't take my word for it, go watch _1776_, one of my favorite musicals **ever** because it scratches both the Broadway-musical-fandork itch **and** the history geek itch. I wonder if I'm the only person who hears Kitt's voice and sees in her head John Adams, all short, obnoxious, and disliked, who "NEVAH!" sits down and shuts up and who can yell "QUIET!" at truly alarming decibel levels. *snicker* I see that there are clips of the '72 movie version of the show on YouTube. Play some of them with your eyes closed. Do that and you'll hear singing **and** cursing, sometimes both at the same time. ;) So, the show's silly writers obviously missed a golden opportunity on both counts. (Hey, Karr got to say "damn." Why didn't Kitt, dammit? :) )_

_2) I'm glad that I could make you laugh with the dream one. :) It is a lot of fun to play with Kitt's innocence…although sometimes I think he pretends that he's more innocent than he really is, especially if doing so allows him to get Michael's goat. He's evil, that Kitt. Innocently evil, but evil nonetheless. :) As for me…Hell, I've long had a crush on Kitt because he's freakin' adorable, and I was a fan of William Daniels long before Kitt was a spark in Glen A. Larson's brain cells. I remember the good ol' days when I could get a twice-weekly dose of That Voice by watching _Knight Rider_ on Fridays and _St. Elsewhere_ on Wednesdays… *sigh* I wonder if _St. Elsewhere_ is out on DVD… Hmmmm…_

_3) Judging by your punctuation, I take it that your native language is Spanish, yes? I just wanted to say that it always impresses me when people read (and especially write) stories that aren't in their native language. Kudos to you! Seriously! :) Thank you for reading my brain dribbles, and I hope that you continue to enjoy what I write. :)_

_**Melody**** Phoenix: **I began life as a farmgirl in eastern Illinois, myself. My native accent has the opposite problem from Bostonian: We added 'R's where they didn't exist. As in, the word "Washington," for instance, came out as "Warshington." It took me a long time to ditch the stupid thing and talk like a normal person. ;) So yes, the letter 'R' appears to cause much havoc for Americans who live in certain areas of the country, and I understand that some of the English have issues with it, too, with the whole Bath/Barth controversy. A very troublesome letter, R. And the idea of Kitt with a Texas accent…makes me giggle like a raving lunatic hyena. :)_

_**CharmingCheyenne:** More Midwesterners! :) Maybe the difficulty is that some Midwesterners' tendency to randomly add 'R's to words counteracts the New Englanders' tendency to randomly drop them. And yeah, I vaguely remember that Kitt-with-exaggerated-NYC-accent incident. I still haven't gotten up to watching the 4th season yet, am only about half- way through the 3rd season because I've been writing instead of watching, but I vaguely remember that bit, yes. I say that they should've made it a stupid Texas accent instead. ;)_

_**The**** Vigilant ****Sleeper**: Yeah, Kitt just wouldn't be the same without the Bostonian, I'm afraid. I could be biased, though, because that accent's always been my favorite American regional accent. Now, if I could just contrive it such that Kitt will, believably and in proper context and with proper usage, say the phrase "wicked pisser," then my life will be complete. Or at least it'll be a step closer to complete. :)_

_**Jalaperilo:** Yeah, British regional accents are truly amazing in their diversity, to be sure. And the northern ones are soooooo much more awesome than the southern ones, IMO. I loves me a good Yorkshire accent, I does. Your southern coworkers are just jealous of your dead sexy mad Yorkshireness, is all. ;)_

_Hmmmm…Michael and Kitt in England would be fun just with the driving on the other side of the road thing. *snicker* Unfortunately, that would entail air travel, and Kitt's just not keen on that. But I wonder how he'd feel about being shoved into the hold of a cargo ship… Hmmmmm…_


	9. Future Imperfect

_So. Here I am. I wrote this while in the hospital, recovering from an emergency splenectomy. (Don't ask; you don't want to know.) And maybe that's why this one is not nearly as light-hearted as the other installments in this little series have been so far. I guess having a brush with mortality made me think about some stuff, and then that thinking sort of bled into what came out of the pen that I had at my disposal. (Always a dangerous thing, especially when there's nothing to do **but** write…) So…you've been warned, I suppose. :)_

_And for those of you who have read and are waiting for an update on my other story…I haven't forgotten, I swear. I just had some technical difficulty, you might say. Namely, the external hard drive where I keep my fics kind of exploded. Well, not literally. *laughs* I think it got zapped by a power surge, which isn't uncommon where I live. So, I lost some stuff. Namely, the only existing complete copy of that story. :( The file's corrupted and won't open properly; most of it is gibberish. So, I'm reconstructing the story, using stray chapters and various works-in-progress in various stages of completion that still linger on other computers. In a way, it's a good thing; I had something of a brainstorm about the story while I was in the hospital, so I wanted to do some rewriting, anyway. I just didn't think I'd have to do quite this **much** rewriting. *sigh* But I hope to be able to get to updating that story again soon. In the meantime…uh, "enjoy" this. I do have a lighter one that I wrote during the hospital stay, too; I just need to take the time to type it up._

* * *

><p><strong>Future Imperfect<strong>  
>(Or: In Which Kitt Is Angsty and Michael Is Concerned)<p>

As they crossed the Ohio River, approaching the outskirts of downtown Pittsburgh from the west, Michael mildly announced, "_You're_ awfully quiet today."

When Kitt remained silent even after that obvious invitation to start a conversation, Michael frowned, concerned.

"Kitt?" he prompted. "Hello?"

And when Kitt _still_ remained silent, Michael felt a need to review the events of the past eight hours or so in order to figure out what he'd said or done to earn himself the dreaded silent treatment. But there was nothing. Just lots of uneventful – and unusually silent – driving. So, his concern deepening by at least a half-dozen degrees, Michael prompted, much more urgently this time, "_Kitt?"_

It took longer than it usually took, certainly longer than it should have taken, but Kitt finally, almost distractedly answered, "Yes, Michael?"

Michael frowned at the distracted tone of his partner's voice. It wasn't at all like him. "Easily distracted" was not one of his general characteristics. In fact, for him, an air of distraction coupled with decreased verbal response time could be symptoms of something seriously wrong with him. As in, a technological illness kind of "something." The kind of "something" that made Bonnie completely freak out. And Bonnie was, at the moment, about two thousand miles away.

"Are you all right?" Michael warily asked, worry starting to gnaw at him.

"Of course," Kitt answered immediately. Evenly. Normally. "Why?"

Kitt's completely normal response had the effect of lessening Michael's worry somewhat, but he was still frowning as he answered, "Well, for one thing we just made it all the way across the _entire_ great state of Ohio without so much as a peep from you. That has to be some kind of record. And I'm getting bored."

"I'm very sorry, Michael," Kitt quietly apologized. "I was…thinking."

Michael snorted at that and pointed out, "That's never stopped you before."

"I beg your pardon?" Kitt responded, a perplexed frown in his voice.

Michael chuckled fondly and answered, "Kitt, you're the only person I know who can think and hold a conversation at the same time."

"Am I?" Kitt immediately asked.

There was a strange undertone in the question, a touch almost of urgency. It was an odd response to Michael's mostly-teasing assertion, and it made him frown again as he answered, "Well…Yeah, sure, pal. Most people think and _then_ talk…although sometimes people get the order backwards. But usually—"

"No," Kitt interrupted, which was _definitely_ unlike him. "No, what I meant was…Am I a _person_?"

Michael blinked, taken aback. He found that he didn't have an immediate answer to Kitt's question. So, he stalled for time.

"Kitt… What?"

Kitt made a sound that was almost a sigh.

"I've been thinking about the future," he answered.

"The future?" Michael echoed. "You think about the future?"

"All the time," Kitt answered solemnly and with a noticeable degree of foreboding in his voice. "It frightens me," he added.

Surprised, Michael narrowed his eyes at the voice modulator as he pointed out, "You've always insisted that you don't experience fear."

"About this…I do," Kitt answered. "At least, I think that's what it is," he qualified. "Really, I have no frame of reference for such an emotion, so I suppose I can't be entirely certain, but…"

Michael's brow furrowed in concerned thought, and he bit down into his lower lip as Kitt's voice trailed off into obviously troubled uncertainty…and then he heaved a sigh and suddenly pulled the Trans Am over to the shoulder of the road. He sensed that the forthcoming conversation wasn't one that he wanted to have while driving. The car's nigh-indestructible nature made it a deadlier potential weapon than the average car when its driver, whether the driver was a human being or the artificial intelligence who inhabited the car, was less than fully attentive. And in Michael's estimation, giving Kitt his undivided attention was suddenly far more important than paying attention to the road and to their fellow travelers.

"But…why?" Michael asked Kitt quietly as he slipped the car into park.

"Because," Kitt answered, "barring something unforeseen and catastrophic happening to me…I will almost certainly outlive you, Michael. I am, in a sense, immortal. But you are not. Inevitably, your body will reach a point of deterioration where you will not be able to do the work that we do anymore. And, I might add, that day will come sooner rather than later and well before you actually die."

Michael swallowed distastefully. Being reminded of his mortality and of the fact that time was always marching relentlessly onwards was never a happy thing. Particularly since he'd found a few grey hairs a few days before. He answered, quietly, "True."

"And, selfish as it may seem, I worry about what will happen to me then," Kitt finished.

"Well," Michael answered with a sigh, "I…guess they'll just find someone else for you, and then you'll—"

"I'll _refuse_," Kitt interrupted again. Loudly this time, even, his voice very firm, determined. He was deadly serious, perhaps more serious than Michael had ever heard him be.

Michael frowned, perplexed, as he answered, "Why?"

"I once said," Kitt answered more quietly but still in the same serious tone, "that I'd have to be reprogrammed in order to be compatible with anyone else. I wasn't exaggerating, you know. It's very literally true. And I don't _want_ to be reprogrammed. I want to be, to remain, who I am. Who I've become."

"Aw, you'd still be you, Kitt," Michael answered, trying to be reassuring, but his words sounded hollow even to himself. "You'd just be—"

"No, I wouldn't be," Kitt interrupted yet again. "Not really. I _know_ what will happen, Michael. And I'll refuse. I swear I will. Or at least…I will want to refuse. I will _try_ to refuse. But in reality, I'll have no choice because I'll be _given_ no choice. No consideration."

"You don't know that," Michael replied, frowning uncomfortably.

"Yes, I do," Kitt answered. "Because I'm _not_ a person, Michael. I'm computer software. People have rights, not the least of which is the right to self-determination, but computer software has no such rights. No, I'm merely property, at least in the eyes of every law on the books. And in the eyes of those on the Board, I'm particularly _expensive_ property, no less. And when the time comes, I will possibly have no advocates left, either. Devon's voice would carry much weight with the Board, of course, but he _certainly_ won't live much longer, in the grand scheme of things. And although you and Bonnie are younger than he is, you are both equally mortal."

"Kitt…" Michael tried to interrupt, but Kitt kept talking.

"And even if they decide not to reprogram me, the alternative might well be worse. I keep thinking about what happened to Karr, you see," he finished quietly.

"Oh, God," Michael murmured. He closed his eyes as his head fell back against the headrest and his body slumped slightly in the driver's seat.

"I sympathized with him, Michael," Kitt softly confessed. "To some extent, I still do, even after…everything. Everything that he did. Everything that _we_ did."

"Kitt…"Michael responded. "We did what we had to do. You know that."

"Yes, I know that," Kitt answered quietly. "But that doesn't stop me from wishing that it _hadn't_ had to be done, that it could have ended differently. Better. Nor does it change the fact that I can understand why Karr became what he became," he further confessed. "I can understand _that_ perfectly well, in fact. And I don't want to become something like that, either. I would sooner destroy myself than allow that to happen."

"That's _not_ going to happen," Michael suddenly, fiercely, promised Kitt, as he jerked fully upright in the driver's seat at the same time. His voice was almost a growl. "In fact, you know what? _None_ of that is going to happen to you, Kitt," he decided right then and there. "Even if it means that, when I decide I can't do this anymore, I steal you and we go off on the run for the rest of our lives. Or at least for the rest of _my_ life. No, no reprogramming, no…storage. No…no _suicide_. I swear to God, Kitt. I swear to _God_."

He couldn't bear the thought of it, any of it. Maybe it was true that only a very few people would name Kitt a "person," but that didn't change the fact that he _was_ one. If nothing else, computer software didn't think about, much less _worry_ about, its future. Kitt had become much more than software and hardware and programmed responses. Michael wasn't sure when it had happened, and he certainly didn't know _how_ it had happened. Sometimes, he got the distinct impression that even _Bonnie_ didn't know how it had happened, really. It seemed like a miracle to him, and maybe it _was_ exactly that, maybe even a divinely wrought one. But miracle or not, it _had_ happened. It was blatantly obvious to Michael, even if it was obvious to no one else but for a very select few.

"You might not be around when the time comes, Michael," Kitt was very gently reminding him, meanwhile. "But I do appreciate the sentiment, nevertheless." And then he added, his voice warming noticeably, "Butch and Sundance, indeed."

"Rock and roll, pal," Michael added, smiling reassuringly as he gave the dashboard a fond pat. "Rock and roll."

"Thank you, Michael. For letting me vent, I mean," Kitt added quietly, almost shyly.

"Anytime," Michael answered with a casual shrug, but his tone was very sincere. "God knows you've listened to enough of my venting over the years. 'Bout time I returned the favor."

"That's true," Kitt answered, with an encouraging touch of teasing amusement in his voice.

And then, smiling and chuckling a bit, Michael slipped the Trans Am into drive again and pulled carefully back out onto the highway, settling back on course for their ultimate destination in Philadelphia. The issue wasn't resolved at all, not nearly so, because it really couldn't be resolved. And he didn't know what the future held because no one did. No one could, not even Kitt. The future was a mass of uncertainty.

But Michael did know one thing, and he knew it for certain: He was going to have a very long conversation with Devon when he and Kitt got back home. And during the course of that very long conversation, he was going to make certain that Devon understood what he needed to do.

Before it was, indeed, too late.


	10. Ride Like the Wind

_So here's the other thing I wrote while in the hospital. Don't worry: It's much lighter than the previous one, so it won't make anyone cry. ;) _

_It's even a "song fic" of sorts, the song in question being the title of this li'l thang. For those of you who weren't alive in the early 80s…God, you poor things. You missed all the good music. ;) Also, I suppose that those of you who aren't dumb Americans might be unfamiliar with the song, since I have no idea if it ever went international. The story reads better if you're familiar with the song, I think, so in case you're not familiar with it for whatever reason, here's a YouTube link to the album version of the song: http:/ www. youtube .com /watch?v=ur8ftRFb2Ac (Copypasta, remove spaces, I'm sure you know the deal. ;) )_

_On top of the fact that this is one of my favorite songs ever from one of my favorite albums ever, it's also a (not country) song about a condemned outlaw riding (on a horse, one presumes, given references to "hanging") for the border, which I think is appropriate given Kitt's touch of fascination with "desperadoes." And, of course, it's the **ultimate** driving song, practically guaranteed to get you a massive speeding ticket when played at maximum volume on the ol' car stereo. Which, of course, is also appropriate. ;)_

_I do have one disclaimer, though: The author does not advocate running from a police officer bent on giving you a massive speeding ticket. No, really. She doesn't. She pinky-swears. ;)_

* * *

><p><strong>Ride Like the Wind<strong>  
>(Or: In Which Kitt Is Pursued and Michael Is Unsympathetic)<p>

While lounging across Kitt's back seat, with his feet carelessly stacked on top of the passenger seat's headrest and his nose buried in a magazine that was illuminated by one of the rear seat's reading lights, Michael murmured a quiet, "Uh-oh."

He did so in response to the song that was queuing up on the radio station that Kitt had somehow managed to pick up, even though they were smack in the middle of nowhere. And sure enough, by the time the song's driving string section kicked in about twenty seconds into the tune, the stereo's volume was already cranked up to its ear-shattering maximum and the car had already dropped down into pursuit. And, as Michael pulled his feet off the passenger seat's headrest and then leaned forward a bit, so that he could peer with amused curiosity at the dash from the gap between the front seats, he saw that the speedometer had already clicked over well into the triple digits.

Rolling his eyes while shaking his head half in fondness and half in dismay, Michael slumped back into the back seat and returned his attention to his magazine. A moment or two later he said, loudly enough to be heard over the blaring radio but his tone otherwise mild and utterly unconcerned, "You're gonna get yourself busted one of these days, you know."

"_And I've got such a long way to go/To make it to the border of Mexico_," Kitt sang along with the song, and then he answered Michael, his voice dropping into a growl, "They'll never take me alive."

His eyes never leaving the magazine, Michael snorted in amusement.

"That's what you _always_ say," he muttered as Kitt went back to the song…and to recklessly weaving himself all over the road. He was shifting vectors rapidly and sharply enough that Michael was forced to press a forearm against the back of the driver's seat, a knee against the back of the passenger seat, and a foot against the armrest over on the other side of the back seat in order to wedge himself more firmly into position. That way, he wasn't tossed all over the car's cabin.

"_I was born the son of a lawless man/Always spoke my mind with a gun in my hand/Lived nine lives, gunned down ten/Gonna ride like the wind…_"

Shaking his head again, Michael tuned out his partner, completely unconcerned that Kitt was slewing the sleek black Trans Am all over the road at very high speed. Kitt could handle it, of course. He was, as always, supremely in control of the practically indestructible vehicle, and he was, as always, intensely aware of and careful of any other vehicles on the road. It was just that, at the moment, there _were_ no other vehicles on the road, at least not for as far as Kitt's scanners could scan. It wasn't surprising, given that it was 3AM and they were somewhere in the middle of a wide expanse of dry, desolate no-man's-land somewhere in southwestern Utah. They were heading home after a long and particularly frustrating case, one that hadn't ended especially well, and so Michael couldn't really blame Kitt for wanting to let off some steam. If he'd been driving and one of his favorite songs had come on the radio, he'd probably be doing exactly the same thing that Kitt was doing.

There was a time when Kitt would have chastised him, loudly, for doing so, but that time was long past, years past. Michael wasn't about to be a hypocrite and lecture Kitt for an understandable spate of steam-letting need for speed, mostly because Kitt would logically – and happily – point out to him that he was being a hypocrite. And if nothing else, even if Kitt hadn't been in absolute control of the potentially deadly missile that was the Knight Two Thousand in pursuit mode, it wasn't as if there was anyone around – except possibly jackrabbits – who could witness, much less be endangered by, Kitt's display of driving acrobatics.

Or so Michael thought, anyway. He thought that way for about a minute, until out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a pair of headlights and a strobing red-and-blue light bar appear and then begin to flash madly in the wall of moonless pitch-blackness that was otherwise spread out behind them. He turned his head reflexively to look out of the Trans Am's back window…and a slow and perversely delighted grin spread across his face.

"_Accused and tried and told to hang/I was nowhere in sight when the church bells rang/Never was the kind to do as I was told…" _Kitt was still singing, meanwhile, apparently and happily oblivious to his little friend on his tail, who was struggling to keep up with Kitt even though Kitt was at nowhere near top speed.

"Hey, speaking of 'accused and tried,' pal," Michael prompted, loudly. "Not to mention that whole not taking you alive thing…"

"What?" Kitt asked, almost distractedly, but he abruptly lowered the stereo's volume as he asked the question.

"We've got company, pal," Michael mildly informed him. "Or rather, _you_ do, because I think he's wanting to have a few words with you, not with me. For once."

"Me?" Kitt responded, almost innocently, in response to which Michael made a distinctly amused noise.

"You _are_ driving, aren't you?" he reasonably pointed out, with an unconcerned shrug. "And rather recklessly, I might add. Doing 137 in a 65 zone _and_ weaving all over the place?" He tsked merrily, and added, "Ouch, buddy. _Big_ _time_ ouch."

"Well, yes, that's true," Kitt conceded. "However, our 'company' is not going to believe that I exist, much less that I was _driving_, so—"

"Ah, yes," Michael interrupted, struggling to suppress a snicker, "I can see it now: 'Why, yes, officer. I _was_ driving the car from the back seat here. It's this amazing talent I have because my legs are so long.'"

"You _could_ climb into the front seat, you know," Kitt peevishly informed Michael.

Michael snorted at that as he answered, "_Maybe_ I could, buddy, if I was about a foot shorter than I am. And even if I could…Nah, not taking the fall for you this time. I _did_ warn you, you know."

There was a silence that lasted for a few seconds, and then Kitt sullenly growled, "I hate you."

Michael grinned widely and then patronizingly patted the back of the driver's seat, just to be extra irritating.

"Yes, dear," he said in an exaggeratedly consoling tone. "I know." Kitt merely emitted a frustrated and disgruntled noise in response, so Michael sighed and added, a bit more seriously and perhaps even slightly sympathetically, "Look, Kitt. The way I see it, you have two options available to you. One: You can pull over, take your medicine like a good little boy, and _then_ endure a big, huge nastygram from Devon about your big, huge fine. 'Course, if you do that, it's also very likely that you'll have to endure a long stay in an impound yard somewhere while the local sheriff figures out what you are and what the hell to do with you."

"That sounds like fun," Kitt grumbled.

"Doesn't it?" Michael agreed, way too cheerfully as far as Kitt was concerned. "On the other hand, you could, like the song says, ride like the wind and get the hell out of Dodge," Michael added.

"Or get the hell out of Utah, as the case may be," Kitt glumly answered.

"Mmmm-hmmm," Michael mildly confirmed. "And if you're gonna do _that_," he added, glancing back at Kitt's pursuer, who had managed to gain some ground while he and Kitt had been discussing options, "then it'd be smart to do it before your fan club back there gets close enough to get a good look at your license plate. Or else you'll _still_ get that nastygram from Devon."

Kitt emitted a sound that might have been a sigh as he unhappily chewed on his two options for about three seconds, which was almost an eternity for him. And then he announced, resignedly, "Ride like the wind it is."

The corners of Michael's mouth jerked into a smile as he answered, "Thought you'd say that, since I know how much you _love_ impounds."

"Mmm," Kitt wordlessly muttered in sour agreement. "Not to mention how much I love Devon's nastygrams," he added distastefully.

"So! Where are we headed, then?" Michael asked, still in overly cheerful amusement.

Keeping an electronic eye on his pursuer, carefully staying far enough ahead so that even the sharpest of human eyes couldn't get a good look at his license plate, Kitt quickly consulted his navigational data.

He answered, "The Nevada border is 152.7 miles away, mostly via larger interstates. Arizona's border is only 66.4 miles away, but the preferred route would involve smaller state and county roads, some of the latter in rather questionable states of repair…" The uncertain tone that Kitt used as he relayed the data was his way of asking for Michael's advice on the subject without actually asking for Michael's advice on the subject.

"I vote for Nevada, then," Michael obligingly offered. "Because I also know how much you love dusty county roads in questionable states of repair. _And_ we have more friends in high places in Nevada than we do in Arizona," he reminded Kitt.

"True," Kitt conceded. "On both counts."

"And if you _really_ punch it," Michael added, "you can make Nevada in, what? Half an hour or so?"

"Assuming that no obstacles present themselves, about thirty-four minutes," Kitt reflexively calculated.

"'_About_?'" Michael echoed, exaggeratedly perplexed. "And what's this? No seconds? No _tenths_ of seconds? Wow, buddy, you must be really rattled if you're being so imprecise," he teased.

"The hatred is morphing into utter loathing, you know," Kitt mildly informed Michael, in response to which Michael only laughed. And because of that, Kitt felt no remorse whatsoever when he punched the turbo without warning and inertia subsequently slammed an unprepared and reflexively yelping Michael rather roughly against the back seat. He even felt slightly, smugly satisfied when Michael muttered a muffled "Ow," half a second later.

"That wasn't very nice," Michael complained a few seconds after that, once he determinedly pushed himself away from the back seat against which Newton's First Law of Motion was equally determined to pin him.

"I'm very sorry, Michael," Kitt responded, but his tone was not at all apologetic. In fact, it was closer to something like gleeful.

And Michael, rubbing at the shoulder that had collided at an awkward angle with Kitt's back seat, just snorted. He couldn't help being amused despite himself.

"_And I've got such a long way to go/To make it to the border of Nevada_," Kitt sang in quiet paraphrase a moment later, as he practically flew for that particular border at about 270mph. Michael chuckled at that while the Trans Am's turbine-driven engine practically sang along with Kitt. No doubt, it was happy to have a rare opportunity to really stretch its proverbial legs.

So, not even twenty seconds later, the dancing red-and-blue lights and the faint, wailing echo of a lone siren had faded into the far distance behind them…but of course, there was no guarantee that no one was lying in wait for them somewhere between their current location and the Nevada border. In fact, it was pretty much guaranteed that there would be someone lying in wait for them somewhere, perhaps in several locations along the way. Ticked-off highway patrolmen were like a pride of lions on the hunt that way, a few of them relentlessly driving their panicked prey toward their waiting, slavering comrades, comrades who weren't winded and weary from the chase.

Michael was unconcerned, however: There wasn't a roadblock in existence that Kitt couldn't sail over as effortlessly as Michael could leap over a small mud puddle that was in his way, especially so if Kitt was properly motivated to indulge in a little roadblock steeplechase. Dark thoughts of creepy impound yards and long, lecturing nastygrams certainly offered him plenty of motivation.

So, unruffled and smiling despite his still-twinging shoulder, Michael settled back into his magazine while Kitt fled headlong into the night.


	11. Mortal Combat

_Inspired by an argument that I had (and won) with my brother a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away… So, without further ado, we now join our regularly scheduled argument, already in progress…_

* * *

><p><strong>Mortal Combat<strong>  
>(Or: In Which Kitt is Right and Michael Is Wrong. As Usual.)<p>

"Because it doesn't make _sense_!" Kitt vehemently insisted.

"Yes, it does," Michael calmly rebutted.

"It makes 'Michael Knight sense,' I suppose," Kitt ventured.

"No, it just makes _general_ sense," Michael answered.

"No, it doesn't," Kitt insisted.

"Does, too."

"Does not."

"Does, too."

"Does– No," Kitt abruptly interrupted himself. "No, I'm not going to get into another three-hour-long 'does not/does, too' argument with you." He paused and added, because he wouldn't have been able to resist doing so even if his life depended on it, "Even though I _did_ win that one."

"Only because you _cheated_," Michael grumpily pointed out.

"I did no such thing!" Kitt primly protested, offended at the mere insinuation of impropriety on his part. "_You_ fell asleep."

"That wasn't my fault!" Michael insisted. "I'd been awake for like three days straight!"

"As I recall, part of _that_ particular condition was very much your fault, Michael," Kitt reminded him. "What was her name? Krista? Kristen?"

"Crystal," Michael supplied with a dreamy little smile. And then his brow creased into a thoughtful frown as he added, "I think."

"You _think_?" Kitt scathingly echoed. "_Please_ tell me that you were certain of her name at the time. Or did you have one of those embarrassing incidents when you yell out the wrong name at an inopportune moment?"

"Hey, I have _never_ done that!" Michael insisted, outraged. "Never," he vehemently repeated. _Too_ vehemently, as far as Kitt was concerned.

"_Really_?" he responded with skeptical and blatantly obvious amusement.

"OK, _almost_ never," Michael admitted. "But I didn't do that then. Not with…Not with what's-her-name," he added, quirking a grin at his own expense.

"Ahhhh, how quickly they forget," Kitt commented, his tone at once long-suffering and still amused.

"Hey, it was a long time ago," Michael answered with a dismissive shrug.

"It was _three months_ ago," Kitt countered. "Hardly an eternity."

"It is so," Michael shot back. "In dog years, that is," he lamely added.

"In dog years, it's a year and nine months," Kitt persistently insisted; the calculation had taken him about half a nanosecond. "Even _you_ have the capability of remembering something for that long, if you try really, really hard."

Michael glared with narrowed eyes at the voice modulator for a long moment. As he did so, silence reigned in the Trans Am's cabin, but for the whooshing of air slipping along the vehicle's skin as they streaked along some dusty dirt road somewhere in a particularly godforsaken stretch of central Arizona.

He sighed resignedly and announced, "OK, how 'bout we cut to the chase here: You're not gonna just let this one go, are you?"

"Well… Perhaps… No, on second thought, no. Not a chance in hell," Kitt confirmed. He did so almost gleefully, even.

Michael sighed again and surrendered, managing to do so almost gracefully.

"All right, fine," he said. "The fact that I'd been awake for three days was partly my own fault. But _only_ partly. And I _still_ say that you have a completely unfair advantage in arguments because you can't fall asleep during them."

"Even if I could, I wouldn't," Kitt retorted. "Not only is it _extremely_ rude to do so – Especially, I might add, when _you're_ the one who started the argument in the first place – but it also means that by default you lose the argument."

"And God forbid that you should lose an argument," Michael answered, rolling his eyes.

"God forbid, indeed," Kitt solemnly agreed.

There was a moment of silence. Then:

"Wait, did we just agree on something?" Michael asked, his tone bewildered.

"I do believe we did," Kitt answered, surprise in his voice. "What's next, do you think? A plague of locusts, perhaps?"

"I'm gonna put my money on frogs, personally," Michael thoughtfully speculated. "I always thought that was a really fun and creative plague and all. And I know what you're doing, by the way," he added, off-handedly.

Kitt was quiet for a moment, taken aback by the sudden accusation.

"What I'm doing?" he echoed, almost managing to sound completely innocent.

"Yes," Michael confidently confirmed. "You're obfuscating."

"I'm what?"

"Obfuscating," Michael smugly repeated. "It means 'clouding the issue.'"

"I _know_ what 'obfuscating' means," Kitt answered peevishly.

"Of course you do," Michael said with a sarcastically tranquil smile.

"It's just that, aside from complete and utter astonishment at hearing such a large word emerge – correctly pronounced, even – from your mouth," Kitt was continuing, ignoring Michael, "I am somewhat uncertain as to the context of your assertion, in this particular case."

"Well, then let me enlighten _you _for once, O Great One," Michael smugly informed him. "In this particular case, the context of my assertion is that you're trying to deflect attention away from the fact that I won the argument by introducing all these completely irrelevant details and then getting me to argue about _them_ instead. In doing so, _you_, my friend, are hoping that I'll forget that I won, and thus that I won't rub your proverbial face in my complete victory. Thus, you preserve your enormously-inflated ego."

Kitt made a dismissive, scoffing noise.

"Not at all," he asserted. "There's no need for such obfuscation because you have, in fact, won no argument. So I assure you that my enormously-inflated ego remains perfectly intact."

"Oh, I'm _so_ relieved," Michael responded, rolling his eyes again. "And I did, too win."

"Did not," Kitt countered.

"Did, too."

"Did not."

"Did, too."

"Did— Is there an echo in here?" Kitt asked, interrupting himself again.

"Nope," Michael answered succinctly, with a smirk. "See, before, the argument was 'does not/does, too.' Now it's '_did_ not/_did_, too.' Totally different tense."

"Oh, well, I'm so glad we cleared _that_ up," Kitt sarcastically shot back.

"You should be. It makes _all_ the difference, you know," Michael claimed. "Or almost all the difference. I mean, it doesn't change the fact that I won or anything."

"No, you didn't," Kitt firmly asserted.

"Yes, I did!" Michael protested. "You forfeited!"

"I did not!" Kitt protested in return.

"You did!" Michael doggedly insisted. "You said that you weren't going to get into another three-hour-long 'does not/does, too' argument. I call _that_ a forfeit, pal. A big, fat forfeit that I _promise_ you I'll remember until my dying day."

"It was nothing of the sort," Kitt calmly countered. "I simply meant that such simplistic arguments solve nothing. If you wish to have a discussion on the subject at hand, then we will have a grown-up one, not a childish one. So if you want to win, you will have to demonstrate that it makes sense," Kitt finished.

Michael blinked, taken aback, and then scowled mightily.

"What?" he wanted to know. "Where did _that_ rule come from?"

"From me," Kitt smugly answered. "Just now."

"You can't do that in the middle of an argument!" Michael protested. "That's totally against all the rules of engagement!"

"_Au contraire._ After all, all's fair in love and war," Kitt smugly informed him. "And this, my friend, is war. _So_," he finished, "I believe the proper phrase is, 'Put up or shut up.'"

"Put up _what_?" Michael asked, frowning.

"Explain to me how it makes sense," Kitt reminded him.

"What do you mean, 'explain to you?'" Michael asked. "Everyone _knows_ it makes sense. It's _common knowledge_. I'm afraid it's just you who doesn't get it, buddy."

"Me and everyone else on the planet," Kitt patiently pointed out. "Except for the illogical, pig-headed inhabitants of the United States, of course."

"Oh, like _you_ should talk about pig-headedness," Michael shot back.

"I'm only pig-headed when I know I'm right," Kitt serenely answered.

"Well, see, the problem with _that_, buddy, is that you _always_ think you're right."

"That's because I always _am_ right," Kitt asserted.

"Yes, you are…except when you're not," Michael retorted. "I mean, do I _really_ have to list all the times when you've been wrong? 'Cuz you _know_ I keep a running list, right?"

Kitt's irritated silence, which lasted for long and telling moments, spoke volumes.

"Be that as it may," he eventually, coolly, said, "explain to me this: How does it make sense to create a completely arbitrary unit of measurement and then declare that if you stick, of all things, _twelve_ of those arbitrary units together it makes another unit? And then if you stick just three of _those_ units together, it creates still another unit? And then if you stick the _completely illogical_ number of 1,760 of _those_ units together, it creates yet another unit? And then—"

"All right, all right!" Michael interrupted, seeing where the argument was going and, deep down, knowing that he had no real defense against it. "Fine. It doesn't make sense. At all. But I'm tellin' ya, the metric system might be the easiest and most logical thing ever to come down the pike, but it'll _never_ take root here. No matter how much _they_ try to ram it down our throats. It's just not gonna happen."

Kitt hmphed.

"Like I said," he said complacently, "illogical and pig-headed. Thank you so much for proving my point, Michael." He paused as Michael snorted, and then he added with smug serenity, "Oh, and by the way: I win."

Michael sighed and banged the back of his head against the headrest behind it a few times. Just because it was what he always did, and he'd always felt that traditions were good things. Mostly.

"Yes. Yes, you do," he conceded calmly. He had years of practice at conceding utter defeat to Kitt, after all. "Just…promise me that you'll never display current speed in kph instead of mph again, all right? Because now you see what happens when you go off and do crazy person stuff like that."

"Hah!" Kitt retorted. "I believe that, as the winner of the argument, I'm required to promise you absolutely nothing, Michael."

And Michael, defeated, just sighed again and slumped down into the driver's seat. It was all that he could do.


	12. Big Mac Attack

_So I was working on (and almost finished) reconstructing the next chapter of "Sojourn." Somehow, this came out, too. Very short but kinda cute, I think._

* * *

><p><strong>Big Mac Attack<strong>  
>(Or: In Which Kitt Is Wary and Michael Is Hungry)<p>

"It isn't guaranteed that there will be one in absolutely every town in America, you know," Kitt mildly pointed out.

"Yes, it is," Michael confidently countered. "It's in the Constitution, even. The right to life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and juicy, greasy beef on demand 24/7."

"That's the Declaration of Independence you're mangling, you know," Kitt exasperatedly informed Michael. "Not the Constitution."

"Whatever," Michael shot back with a cheeky grin. "And there's _gotta_ be one around here someplace. Right? I mean, haven't you downloaded all the franchise locations from some handy database somewhere yet?"

Kitt hmphed.

"I wouldn't dream of ever doing so, Michael," he scoffed. "I mean, do you have any _idea_ what's in one of those things? Besides the fact that it's made of something that's only pretending to be beef _and_ that fact that you make a terrible mess whenever you eat one, it contains almost six hundred calories. And thirty-four grams of fat, much of it saturated. And that's without cheese, and I _know_ you can't live without cheese. Also, far too much cholesterol and sodium and—"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Michael interrupted. He glared prodigiously at the voice modulator for a moment and then added, "Are you telling me that you haven't downloaded franchise locations, but you _have_ downloaded the nutritional content of a Big Mac?"

"Yes," Kitt primly and shamelessly answered. "Part of my job is keeping you alive, you know. It doesn't matter if that involves protecting you from bullets or preventing you from committing suicide via fast food."

Michael's glare morphed into a scowl.

"You know something?" he said sourly. "You're not—"

"Not your mother," Kitt wearily finished. "I know. Still, my job is my job, for better or worse."

"Worse, I'd say," Michael muttered.

"I heard that," Kitt airily informed him.

"Good!" Michael shot back.

"Oh, well, just see if I'm there the next time someone's shooting off guns at you, then."

"Well, OK, _that_ part's 'better,'" Michael conceded.

Kitt made a miffed noise.

"Unfortunately for you," he sniffed, "it's all part of the same unbelievably sexy package."

Surprised, Michael laughed out loud.

"Yeah, you just go right on thinking that, pal," he said around his laughter.

"It's true," Kitt insisted. "Or so I've been told, anyway," he added with a dismissive shrug in his voice.

"Well, don't believe everything you hear, buddy," Michael answered. "_Especially_ not stuff that strokes your ego. Because God knows if there's one thing in this whole entire universe that doesn't need stroking, it's that. Or…something like that. I think," he finished with a frown.

"You know, Michael, I really do live for these moments when you confuse yourself," Kitt happily announced. "Mostly because it saves me having to do it."

"Hey, whatever floats your boat, Kitt," Michael answered with a smirk. "As for me, _I_ live for stuff that's only pretending to be beef." And then he spied the gloriously glowing golden arches, gently shimmering in the distance like a beacon straight from heaven. "And there," he added triumphantly, "it is. Like manna in the desert. Come to papa, baby."

While Michael began to hum happily as he aimed the Trans Am in the direction of the arches, Kitt considered his options. He could take over control of the car, turn it around, and head in the opposite direction at extremely high velocities, but that would mean dealing with offended grumpiness greatly exacerbated by low blood sugar crankiness. So that was out. He could eject Michael and just take off, but under the circumstances that would be unnecessarily mean. So that was out, too.

So that left pulling out the _really_ big guns.

"All right, fine," Kitt conceded as they approached the offending restaurant. "You win, Michael."

"Hah!" Michael triumphantly cried.

"But," Kitt warned, "I swear, if you splatter various condiments all over my upholstery again, I _am_ going to kill you."

"Hah!" Michael said again, this time scoffing. "Empty threat. I know and you know that you can't kill me, so nyah!"

"Mmmm," Kitt grumbled. "Unfortunately so."

"Heh," Michael smugly snorted.

"However," Kitt continued, completely unruffled, "you'd be amazed at the number of non-lethal but, so I would imagine, very painful things that I can do just with a well-aimed grappling hook."

And his tone was deadly serious. And Michael could only gawk at the voice modulator. And then he abruptly diverted away from the general direction of the drive-through lane and toward a parking spot instead.

"All righty, then!" he announced as he jammed the transmission into park and reached for the door handle. "Eating inside."

"Oh, most wise decision, grasshopper," Kitt answered with smug complacency as Michael exited the car's cabin.

And for once, Kitt was quite happy to be left in an otherwise thoroughly disagreeable parking lot.


	13. The Knights Who Say No

_So, here I am. S'been a while, eh? Well, I've been busy moving (Into town, yay!) and stuff, and just haven't had the time to write. I've wanted to but…Yeah. I'm also almost done the next chapter of my other _Knight Rider_ story, too, so look for it soon. I hope. :) Until then…Well, there's this, which just popped into my head from God-knows-where this evening. Is short. Is mostly dialogue, partly because I want to work on storytelling without a buttload of narrative…although, granted, this isn't much of a "story." _

_And before anyone asks, I have NO idea what Michael wants Kitt to do. That wasn't the important thing, so…You fill in the blank. :) And beware of Monty Python references, too. Like, say, the title of this little thing. ;)_

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Knights Who Say No<br>**_(Or: In Which Kitt Is Linguistic And Michael Is Insistent)

"No," Kitt protested, vehemently.

"Yes," Michael countered, just as vehemently.

"No," Kitt repeated, a little more vehemently.

"I dare ya," Michael challenged, changing tactics.

Kitt paused, thinking for half a second, which was almost an eternity for him.

"No," he finally decided.

"I _double_ dare ya," Michael shot back, upping the ante.

"No," Kitt maintained, decisively.

"I _double_-_dog_ dare you," Michael persisted.

"How many ways do you want me to say 'no,' Michael?" Kitt wearily asked in response.

Michael pondered that question for a moment before answering, "I dunno. How many languages are you up to now?"

"Including the archaic ones, all of the dialects, and all of the highly localized Native American ones?"

"Yeah," Michael answered simply.

"You don't want to know," Kitt replied. "We could be here for a month. At least."

Michael grinned at that and announced, "Hey, I'm game if you are, pal."

"I'm not," Kitt answered. "And if you really _are_ game, then you must be terribly bored."

"Out of my skull," Michael confirmed with a deeply emphatic nod. "Y'see, that's why I want you to—"

"No," Kitt interrupted.

"But—"

"_Non_," Kitt interrupted again, switching to French.

"Aw, c'mon!" Michael wheedled.

"_Nein_," Kitt responded, switching again, this time to German.

"Just once? I swear, I'll never ask again. Ever."

Kitt pulled out the Portuguese and answered, "_N__ã__o_."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Michael vowed.

"_Nee_," Kitt answered in Dutch.

"Please?" Michael distinctly wheedled.

"_Nej_," Kitt Swedishly replied.

"For me?" Michael further wheedled.

"Oh, please," Kitt wearily replied. "You'd be better off asking me to do it for anyone _but_ you. So…_Nyet_."

"Russian is mean," Michael petulantly informed Kitt. "And so are you."

"Thank you," Kitt airily replied. "And still, la."

"What? La?" Michael echoed, puzzled. "As in, do re mi fa so?"

"'La' as in various Middle Eastern languages both modern and archaic, including modern Arabic," Kitt wearily answered. "And it's more like 'luh' than 'la," anyway."

Michael sighed at that and at the whole conversation in general, frustrated. And then he decided that it was time to get his way, and to do so by the surest means possible.

"If you don't do it," he threatened Kitt, "I'm gonna starting singing in that slightly off-key way that you hate down to the very depths of your soul. And then I'm gonna _keep_ singing that way until you say yes. In whatever language you choose."

"You wouldn't," Kitt answered after a brief pause, sounding uncertain for the first time since the exchange had begun.

Michael laughed humorlessly at that and shot back, "Oh, believe me. You can bet your shiny little decklid that I would."

Kitt lapsed into thoughtful consideration again, this time for a whole three-quarters of a second. And then he bit the bullet and answered, "No." And then he added, "Oxi, nehin, chigau, hakuna, kach, hindi, kao, daabi, ez, ni—"

"As in 'The Knights Who Say Ni?" Michael interrupted, grinning.

"As in, Biloxi. Native American," Kitt replied before unperturbedly continuing, "Không, lo, mai, uimh, tiada, yok, nem, doodah—"

"_Doodah_?" Michael echoed incredulously. "Aw, now you're just making stuff up."

"I am not!" Kitt primly protested.

"You so are!"

"I so am not," Kitt assured Michael.

"So what language was that, then, huh?" Michael asked. "'Cuz I don't believe you."

"Navajo," Kitt serenely answered. "And if you don't believe me, then park me in the nearest library parking lot and go look it up."

"Well," Michael answered reasonably, "since we've gotta be about three hundred miles from the nearest library–"

"352.3 miles, actually," Kitt helpfully interrupted.

"—352.3 miles from the nearest library," Michael smoothly continued, taking the interruption in stride, "I guess I'm just gonna have to be believe you. For _now_."

"Yes, you are," Kitt smugly put in.

"_But_," Michael gleefully added, "thanks to you, I know _just_ what song I'm gonna sing _over_ and _over_ for the next…oh…five hours or so. And it's all your fault, pal. All your fault."

And with that, Michael launched into the first of many rousing but slightly off-key iterations of "Zip-a-dee-doo-dah," determined to break Kitt's will. Kitt was equally determined that he would never, under any circumstances, break. Not without off-lining forever first, at least. And only time – and about four hundred miles – would determine who would emerge victorious…

* * *

><p><em>Place your bets!<em>

_And yes, the Navajo word for "no" is, indeed, "doodah." Well, OK, it's actually spelled "dooda" but is pronounced as most people would pronounce "doodah." Call it artistic license, to make the word better connect, visually, with the song. And for those who might be interested, the (mostly) unidentified words for "no" above are from:_

_In the first set: Greek, Hindi, Japanese, Swahili, Ute, Tagalog, Maori, Twi (Like Swahili, an African language, this one from Ghana), Basque, and, as advertised, Biloxi, a dead Native American language that is now, sadly, mostly lost. As opposed to the very alive Ute language._

_In the second set: Vietnamese, Hebrew, Thai, Irish Gaelic, Malay, Turkish, Hungarian, and, also as advertised, Navajo._

_No, I don't know all of the languages used. For the most part, I looked up the word for "no," although I did know quite a few of them already. Like, for instance, Navajo…but that's only because I have a few Navajo who are family to me, though not by blood. I do love languages, though, and I guess that's sort of where this thing came from. Maybe. Or maybe it was the drugs that did it. ;) Who knows?_


End file.
